Chapter Text
The morning was slow. Sunlight slanted through the curtains of the estate’s sitting room, gilding the edges of the books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, the half-empty teacups, the way Feofan’s fingers traced the spine of a novel he wasn’t actually reading. The air smelled of chamomile and the faint, lingering scent of last night’s rain, the kind of quiet that only existed in the spaces between storms.
Feofan was curled into the corner of the sofa, his legs drawn up beneath him, the fabric of his robe pooling around his knees. He had been awake for hours, but the kind of awake that was more habit than intention. His stomach, still flat but already carrying the weight of something new, pressed lightly against the armrest. He hadn’t told Zandik yet about the way the baby had begun to move, just the faintest flutter, like a moth trapped behind his ribs. He wanted to wait until it was undeniable. Until Zandik couldn’t pretend not to notice.
Zandik, for his part, was a study in controlled stillness. He sat at the small writing desk by the window, his pen moving in precise, deliberate strokes across a sheet of paper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, the lines of his forearms sharp beneath the morning light. He had been working on the same letter for the better part of an hour, his brow furrowed not in concentration, but in the kind of frustration that came from trying to shape words into something that wouldn’t betray him.
Feofan watched him from beneath his lashes, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re stalling," he observed, voice rough with disuse.
Zandik didn’t look up. "I’m composing."
"You’ve crossed out that sentence five times."
A pause. The pen stilled. Zandik exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so devoid of humor. "It’s a delicate matter."
Feofan hummed, low and knowing. "Or you’re overthinking it."
Zandik’s jaw tightened, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "And here I thought you were reading."
"I was." Feofan flipped the book over, revealing the cover: A Treatise on the Alchemical Properties of Moonlight, a gift from Zandik that he had yet to crack open. "Until someone decided to turn the sitting room into a study."
Zandik set the pen down at last, flexing his fingers as if they ached. "I’ll relocate."
"Don’t." Feofan stretched his legs out, nudging Zandik’s chair with his foot. "I like having you here. Even when you’re insufferable."
Zandik’s eyes flicked up, dark and unreadable, but there was something soft in the way they lingered on Feofan’s face. For a moment, the room felt lighter, the weight of the unsaid between them less oppressive. Then Zandik’s gaze dropped to Feofan’s stomach, and the air shifted, thickened, like the moment before a storm.
Feofan followed his line of sight and smirked. "Still not showing enough for your liking, Doctor?"
Zandik’s throat worked. "I wasn’t..."
"You were." Feofan’s voice was gentle, teasing. "You’ve been staring at my midsection like it’s going to sprout wings."
Zandik’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach out, to press his palm against the faint curve of Feofan’s abdomen. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I have work to attend to."
Feofan raised an eyebrow. "In your office? Or are you just fleeing the scene of your own embarrassment?"
"Both." Zandik’s voice was dry, but there was a warmth there, buried beneath the layers of control. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Feofan’s temple, his lips lingering for a breath longer than necessary. "Try not to set the house on fire while I’m gone."
Feofan snorted. "No promises."
Zandik’s chuckle was quiet, almost imperceptible, but it was there. And then he was gone, the door to the study clicking shut behind him with a finality that felt too heavy for the moment.
The study was a sanctuary of controlled chaos, the kind of space that only Zandik could navigate with any semblance of order. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, scrolls, and jars of things Feofan had long since stopped asking about. The desk was a landscape of papers, ink pots, and half-finished experiments, the scent of old parchment and alchemical solvents thick in the air.
Zandik moved through the room like a man who knew exactly where everything was, even if no one else did. He set the unfinished letter aside and pulled a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer, his movements precise, efficient. But there was a tension in his shoulders, a coil of something tight and restless beneath his skin.
He sat. He exhaled. He reached for a stack of correspondence that had arrived that morning, the wax seals already broken by the house staff. Most of it was mundane—requests for consultations, reports from colleagues, a few invitations he had no intention of accepting. But beneath the pile, half-hidden as if someone had tried to tuck it out of sight, was a single manila folder, thin and unassuming.
Zandik’s fingers stilled.
He knew that folder.
He recognized it.
The seal was unbroken, but the paper was of a particular weight, the edges just slightly too crisp. Fatui standard issue. And beneath his fingertips, he could feel the faint ridge of a single word embossed into the cover: Arlecchino.
His breath hitched.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulled the folder free and set it on the desk in front of him. The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick, suffocating. He didn’t want to open it. He knew he didn’t. But his fingers moved anyway, flipping the cover back with a quiet snap.
Inside, there was a single photograph, a blood test result, and a note.
The photograph was of a boy.
Zandik’s lungs forgot how to work.
The boy was small, too small for his age, his frame slight beneath the stiff lines of a Fatui-issued coat. His hair was dark, unruly, falling into his eyes in a way that made him look perpetually distracted. But it was his face that made Zandik’s hands shake. The jawline was unmistakably Feofan’s, sharp, stubborn, the kind of angle that spoke of a man who had spent a lifetime refusing to back down. But the eyes. The eyes were his. Zandik’s. The same dark, fathomless depth, the same way of looking at the world like it was a puzzle he was already three steps ahead of solving.
His name was written beneath the photograph in neat, precise script: Aleksei Snezhevich.
Zandik’s fingers trembled as he reached for the blood test result. The numbers blurred in front of him, but he didn’t need to read them to know what they said. He had seen this sequence before. He had created it. The genetic markers were a match: 98% identical to his own. And to Feofan’s.
His stomach twisted.
The note was brief, written in Arlecchino’s precise, looping hand:
Subject exhibits accelerated mental development but severe physical degradation. Prognosis: terminal. Recommend containment or elimination.
Zandik’s vision swam. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, a sound like the ocean, like the world narrowing down to a single, impossible point.
Aleksei.
He had named him that, once. In the quiet of the lab, in the sterile white light of Snezhnograd, he had whispered it to the infant in his arms like a prayer. Like a curse.
And then he had given him away.
The memory hit him like a physical blow. The weight of the child in his arms. The way the baby had looked at him with eyes that were already too knowing, too old. The way Arlecchino had taken him, his gloved fingers closing around the tiny, fragile body, and said, "We’ll take care of him."
Zandik had let him.
He had let him.
And now, now the boy was seven. And he was in Fontaine. And he was dying.
Zandik’s hands clenched into fists, the paper crumpling beneath his grip. He wanted to scream. He wanted to burn the folder, to pretend he had never seen it, that this wasn’t happening. But the photograph stared up at him, accusing, undeniable.
He reached for his desk phone, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. His fingers fumbled with the receiver, and for a moment, he hesitated. Then he dialed the number he knew by heart, the one that connected him to the man who had taken Aleksei from him.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then, a voice, smooth and amused: "Dottore. I was wondering when you’d call."
Zandik’s throat was raw. "Knave."
"Ah. Using my title. How formal." A pause. The sound of a glass being set down, the clink of ice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Zandik’s grip on the phone tightened. "The boy. Aleksei Snezhevich. Where is he?"
A beat of silence. Then, a sigh, almost disappointed. "Ah. So the file did reach you."
"Where. Is. He."
"Missing," Arlecchino said, and the word was a blade. "He escaped containment three days ago. The entirety of Fontaine is on high alert. The House of the Hearth is unhappy about the breach."
Zandik’s chest constricted. "You lost him?"
"I allowed him to slip through the cracks," Arlecchino corrected, his voice light, almost playful. "He’s a threat grade one, Dottore. You of all people should understand why."
Zandik’s free hand pressed against his sternum, as if he could physically contain the panic rising there. "You knew I’d want to know."
"I knew you’d need to know," Arlecchino said. "He’s looking for you. And he’s not the only one."
Zandik’s breath came sharp and shallow. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Arlecchino said, and there was a edge to his voice now, something cold and final, "that if the Fatui find him first, they won’t be as sentimental as I am. And if you find him... well. You’ll have to decide what to do with him, won’t you?"
The line went dead.
Zandik stared at the receiver in his hand, the dial tone a harsh, discordant note in the sudden silence. His mind raced, a storm of possibilities, of fears, of guilt so thick he could taste it.
He had to think. He had to plan.
He reached for the folder again, his intention clear. He would burn it. He would pretend...
The door to the study creaked open.
Zandik’s head snapped up, his body going rigid. Feofan stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on the photograph in Zandik’s hand.
For a long, terrible moment, neither of them moved.
Then Feofan’s voice cut through the silence, low and dangerous. "Zandik. Who the hell is that?"
Zandik’s mouth opened. Closed. His mind raced, but the lies died on his tongue. He could see the moment Feofan’s gaze flicked from the photograph to his face, the way his eyes narrowed, the way his body tensed like a coiled spring.
"No one," Zandik said, and the words tasted like ash.
Feofan’s jaw tightened. He stepped into the room, his movements deliberate, controlled. "Bullshit."
Zandik’s fingers twitched toward the photograph, as if he could hide it, but it was too late. Feofan was already there, already seeing, his gaze flicking from the image of the boy to Zandik’s face and back again.
Feofan’s hand shot out, snatching the photograph from Zandik’s grip. He studied it, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning horror. "Zandik. What the fuck."
Zandik’s chest ached. He could see the moment Feofan’s eyes widened, the way his breath hitched. The resemblance was undeniable. The jawline. The eyes. The shape of him.
Feofan’s voice was a whisper, raw and disbelieving. "This is... This is my face."
Zandik didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Feofan’s grip on the photograph tightened, the edges of the paper crumpling beneath his fingers. "Zandik. Who is this child?"
Zandik’s throat worked. He wanted to lie. He wanted to run. But the weight of the truth was a physical thing, pressing down on him, crushing him. "Feofan!"
"Don’t." Feofan’s voice was a blade. "Don’t you dare lie to me right now."
Zandik’s hands shook. He reached for the folder, for the blood test, for the note, but Feofan was faster, snatching them up, his eyes scanning the contents with a speed that spoke of a man who had spent a lifetime reading between the lines.
And then Feofan’s face went pale. "Ninety-eight percent."
Zandik flinched.
Feofan’s gaze snapped up, his eyes burning. "Zandik. What did you do?"
The silence between them was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Zandik could see the betrayal in Feofan’s eyes, the hurt, the rage. And beneath it all, something worse: fear.
Zandik’s voice was a rasp. "Feofan. Please. Let me explain-"
"Explain?" Feofan’s voice was a snarl. "You better."
Zandik’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could feel the weight of the past pressing down on him, the ghosts of his choices rising up to haunt him. He had known this moment would come. He had feared it. And now that it was here, he didn’t know how to make it right.
Feofan’s gaze dropped to the note from Arlecchino, his expression darkening with every word. When he looked up again, his eyes were wet, his voice barely above a whisper. "Terminal."
Zandik’s chest cracked open.
Feofan’s hands shook as he set the photograph down on the desk, his voice hollow. "You have a son. And you never told me."
Zandik’s breath came in ragged gasps. "Feofan!"
"Get out."
Zandik flinched as if struck. "Feofan!"
"Get. Out." Feofan’s voice was a whip-crack. "I don’t want to look at you right now."
Zandik’s legs moved on their own, carrying him backward, away from the desk, away from Feofan. He could see the way Feofan’s hands were trembling, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. He wanted to reach for him. He wanted to beg. But the look in Feofan’s eyes was a wall, impenetrable.
He turned and left the study, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that felt like a nail in his coffin.
In the hallway, he pressed his back against the wall, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. His hands were still shaking. He could feel the burn of tears behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not until he had fixed this.
He looked down at his hands, at the way they trembled like a man who had seen a ghost. And then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off the wall and strode toward his office, his mind already racing, already planning.
He had to find Aleksei. Before the Fatui did. Before it was too late.
And then...
Then he would make this right.
Somehow.