With the faint crackle of the phonograph, a deep baritone sang woefully in Snezhnayan, to distract him from his thoughts. Pantalone hated the feeling. Loneliness, hunger, a desire for more.. He hadn’t felt like this since he was still roaming the streets of Liyue, knees bruised from prayers to a God that never once showed him mercy. It burned within him like fire, setting him alight. So he indulged himself, for a fleeting moment.

He set down his empty glass, finding himself standing. No longer dressed in his banquet clothes, he wasn't sure what came over him, but he began to dance. His silk night robe flitted with his movements, as he envisioned someone dancing with him. A slender hand on his hip, wrapped in leather. Instead of a musk of cologne, the scent of antiseptic and formaldehyde would fill his nose. Sickening, but familiar. 1,2,3, Step left, step right, underarm turn. Periwinkle curls would fall over that raven's mask of his, that Pantalone longed to remove. Perhaps a soft whisper, a promise, a threat. 1,2,3, a twirl, 4,5,6. Perhaps the Doctor would be a terrible dancer, and trip over his own heels. Perhaps he'd surprise Pantalone and waltz impeccably. Their chests would be pressed together, leaving no space between them. A deft hand would slip down his hip, and Dottore would surely whisper..

"How sad." The suddenness of the voice caused Pantalone to jump, though he knew full well who was in his quarters. The familiar sound of the Doctor's grating laugh rang in his ears."You weren't expecting me, were you?”