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Pantalone refuses to step foot in the medical wing of the Winter Palace.
He'd only been there twice before: the first time he saw something that he really wished he hadn't. The second time was for a “check-up”, and that ended with both of them drawing blood. It also took an entire night, and he literally had to crawl back to his quarters, shaking with exhaustion.
Pantalone doesn’t prefer the hands-on operations of this institution — he’s much more content working behind the scenes, making sure all Fatui enterprises are running smoothly and efficiently. And of course — that they’re accruing revenue. He personally audits each and every expense report from his fellow Harbingers, including those from Dottore's lab.
Which is precisely why he needs to pay a visit to this grim, dismal place:
One million pieces of Mora, completely unaccounted for.
(And that’s if he doesn't count the projected interest.)
Pantalone grinds his teeth as he walks down the empty marbled halls. The closer he gets, the more he can smell camphor and residual blood. The cleaning personnel have never been able to get rid of it, no matter how many hands he hires.
These days, it seems like he’s been cleaning up after the doctor’s messes at an alarmingly increasing rate. By far he’s the largest fiscal threat to this organization, even after he had to pay off Tartaglia's little stunt in Liyue. Dottore's projects hemorrhage Mora: localized waivers, legal fees, incredulous taxes from shipping large pieces of machinery around Teyvat. Sometimes Pantalone orders his attendants to seize prescription formulas or blueprints for medical instruments to sell, and that makes up for more than their losses — a terribly expensive buy-in, but otherwise profitable investment.
But Pantalone isn’t a gambler — his job is to make more money, and the idea is that the rest of the Harbingers shouldn’t squander it.
When he steps into Dottore’s office, Pantalone is going to ensure that he gets remunerated appropriately. And in a timely fashion. The last time this happened, it took quite a bit of persuasion for the doctor to agree to pay him back. The payments arrived in small installments, divided into odd fractions, and it took over a year to settle the ledgers. This time, he’ll employ every negotiation tactic he can, even if they resort to drawing weapons. He’s planned on taking the doctor by surprise since he never comes to the medical wing himself. And if he’s timed this right, Dottore should be right in the middle of working on—
Pantalone almost runs into someone as he turns a corner. Strange; he didn’t hear any footsteps incoming.
When he looks up, he’s greeted with an unmistakable smile, all razor-sharp teeth.
"Now isn't this a pleasant surprise? The little prince comes out from hiding in his castle tower."
Ah. This certainly spoiled his plans. He’ll have to bide his time, wait to bring up the lost Mora when he’s at a situational advantage.
"Greetings, doctor."
Dottore folds his arms and leans against the wall — sloppy compared to Pantalone's pin-straight posture.
“We haven’t seen each other in a while, dear Regrator.”
“I actually saw one of you just a few months ago. Your clones are quite ghastly, but we had a nice time all things considered. I was quite surprised at how nice us Harbingers were able to play together.”
“I heard about that encounter a bit. Shame it wasn’t really me who was there.”
“We can agree on something, then. I don’t care for your little clones as much. They’re a touch more… unrestrained than you are now.”
“No need to be civilized with me. I was quite the livewire back when they were cultivated.”
"We ended up chasing each other off with knives. Your clone stuck me in the arm while I sucked him off.”
That piques Dottore’s interest. And when Dottore is interested in something, he has a tendency to not let it go. Just like these grotesquely engineered leeches that he keeps — nine of them, to be precise. (He showed Pantalone, once — they take out chunks of flesh when pulled off, and most times the poor victims immediately bleed to death.)
“I didn’t think you were capable of saying such improper things," Dottore says. "Always the proper gentleman. I’ve never heard you so much as swear.”
“Come now. Did you not just say to forego the proprieties? I’m simply corroborating what you probably already know.”
“Now I’m really disappointed it wasn’t me who was there.”
“Disappointed you didn’t get to stab me?”
“That, and other things…”
Dottore takes a step closer, but Pantalone holds out one of his gloved hands to firmly stop him. It hits Dottore square in the chest. No heartbeat. Pantalone remembers: the original heart was transplanted in the third iteration of the doctor, the one he spectacularly sucked off.
"I'm on my way to an appointment. You know I don't like to be late." It’s the polite way to excuse himself — they both knew that no meetings were ever held on this side of the palace.
"No more time to catch up?"
"You truly are disappointed. I'm surprised you're making an effort to emote to others today."
Dottore leans over, speaking low into Pantalone’s ear.
"If you were really in a hurry, you would have already left."
Pantalone clears his throat. "We're in the middle of a palace hallway." Even though it's silent, they both know the lack of noise is more than deceptive.
"And?"
"I'm not entertaining your outlandish thoughts and behavior where everyone can observe."
"Then you'll take tea with me tomorrow," he says. "If you don’t, I’ll be terribly hurt. I've soundproofed my quarters, if that reassures you at all."
"Oh, I'm not so certain now… Who's going to hear me cry out if you suddenly decide it's time to stick me with your daggers as well?"
Dottore takes one of Pantalone's hands. Presses his lips to Pantalone's slender, gloved fingertips.
"No one, darling."
Dottore says this with a genuine smile. It’s terrifying.
Pantalone flashes one in return. "Shall I expect one of your attendants to come fetch me when you're ready, then?"
“Mid-afternoon. I hope to see you all dressed up for the occasion.”
Pantalone gently reclaims his hand, swishes his cape as he turns to walk through the foyer. Dottore stares after him, contemplating what he should serve for tea tomorrow, which knives he'd like to keep hidden in his jacket for the affair.
Afternoon tea is a commonplace social activity in Snezhnaya. But the invitation is unusual, considering Il Dottore doesn't need to eat or drink. He's re-engineered his body so it doesn't need any sustenance. He doesn't even need to sleep. He’s extreme that way, certainly not anyone’s first choice for leisurely company.
Pantalone stopped telling himself that he was repulsed a few years ago. He’s always refining his lines of logic, and it doesn’t make sense to lie to himself of all people. He could save the dishonesty for his clients.
Although he stands by the opinion he’s always held: he abhors the inhuman temperature of Dottore’s body. It’s not cold, per se, but it reminds Pantalone of a fresh corpse after a few hours. The doctor’s cloned his body multiple times now, and the original one’s been half replaced or reconstructed. He’s always going on about vessels and innovation and options, which is probably how one million pieces of Mora disappeared within Dottore’s labs in the first place.
But again, that conversation will have to wait for today. He’s in no position to bargain in an environment that Pantalone didn't have the advantage in. Undoubtedly, the medical wing here is no such place, not when he knows what lies behind the trap doors and secret compartments in the walls.
(Last year, he'd approved funding a large-scale construction project in the adjoining sections of the palace just to see what was hiding in the infrastructure.)
They’ve reached a point where Pantalone is comfortable enough to eat and drink around him. The last poisoning attempt was a little over two years ago now. Dottore must’ve figured it was more fun to have Pantalone alive and thrashing. Pantalone stares at the other side of the office, where the doctor’s beloved leeches writhe around themselves in the dark water of their tank.
But aside from those bloody creatures, it's eerily nice in the room. They’re sitting side by side at a large, round table — pressed tablecloth, all sterling serving ware, and pâtisserie stacked in towers, dusted with powdered sugar like false snow. The table should sit about seven if it was being put to proper use, but there’s no way Dottore would ever entertain that many people. Pantalone thinks back, and he’s not sure that Dottore has ever done something as civilized as a little fête like this. There's even bobbin lace sewn onto the edges of their napkins.
But Dottore’s good at engineering things large and small, nightmarish and frivolous. And he’s uncomfortably, acutely aware of how to appeal to Pantalone’s sensibilities.
“Do you like your tea?” Dottore asks, resting his chin on his hands. His elbows are on the table — bad manners, but he looks at Pantalone with such sweetness, Pantalone holds his tongue.
He's drinking a smoky black tea sourced from Liyue mixed with cinnamon and dried cherries. Two pinches of sugar; Dottore remembered.
“I’m simply charmed by all of it, doctor.” Pantalone lays on the wistful airiness of his voice, but he also isn’t lying.
“I felt especially compelled to make this nice in the hopes of making up for that fiasco with my clone. The beginnings of a proper apology, perhaps?"
Pantalone laughs. "I'll take it, seeing as you'd never dare to utter the words 'I'm sorry'."
Charmed was a good word. Sitting like this side by side, they make a proper vignette for a proper prince and his proper lover. Dottore even has a teacup in front of his seat, though the porcelain remains empty and dry. But this whole scene is much too nice, too clean for the likes of the doctor. And usually when Dottore’s facilities all tidied up, they've been prepared for an utter mess.
"You know, after I saw you yesterday, I got to thinking — I could fix the vision in those pretty eyes of yours," he says. "It's a painless procedure, really. Recovery is quick. I wouldn't even charge you, I'd do it out of nothing but kindness and generosity."
"I'm flattered, Dottore. But I'm afraid I like these quite a lot. I've grown fond of them over the years. I'm sentimental that way."
Dottore leans closer, playing with the waves of Pantalone's hair. "Is that why you collect things like a compulsive hoarder?"
Poor manners not to keep your hands to yourself at the table.
"You like to throw away your toys when you tire of them. It's wasteful."
With the tip of his finger, Dottore plays with the delicate chain that hangs from his glasses. Like a cat — if he knows he shouldn't touch something, it only makes the doctor want to mess around with it that much more. Pantalone catches the gloved hand crawling near his face before Dottore pulls any harder.
"I really do need these to see, you know. I'm very nearsighted. My eyesight is quite poor without these lenses. You know my prescription, doctor."
"It's just that I haven't gotten a good look at your face. It's been such a long time since I've seen you," Dottore purrs.
Pantalone releases the thin blade that hides in his wrist cuff, pressing the tip of it just enough to bite into the flesh underneath Dottore's chin.
"Now, that's just unfair. Subjecting me to your observations when you get to keep your mask on…"
"If you wanted to see my face, you simply could have used those big words of yours to ask."
"And I would have, if that's what I wanted."
Dottore slowly takes Pantalone’s bladed wrist in his hand, a single bead of crimson running down the pointed steel shank. Here, they hold each other, waiting for the other to make a move first, frozen in heady anticipation. Between the two of them, Dottore is physically stronger but the least patient. Like a toppling iceberg, their two forms slowly turn and fall over until Dottore looms above, pinning Pantalone’s back against the white tabletop linens. The sound of porcelain shakes and clatters. With his arms spread and locked on either side of his head, Pantalone must look like a butterfly being pinned down to a board. He certainly feels it.
When the doctor grinds against his waist, Pantalone can feel the outline of hidden blade sheaths next to their incriminating bulges, lazily rolling back and forth against one another. Sharp pleasure swirls and pierces Pantalone’s loins, and he throws back his head as his breath catches in his throat. He can see the faintest outline of Dottore's eyes behind the mask, all dark and red.
"Ah, but how quickly I forget — all that pretty head of yours can think of is currency and numbers these days. Someday, I ought to cut it open, see how all those years of hunger and desperation molded and warped your brain."
"At least I have one. Well — I shouldn't make assumptions. But just how much of Il Dottore is still organic?"
The tip of his mask draws an angry red line down Pantalone’s jaw as Dottore moves over his neck. Hovers there. His lips barely touch the skin of Pantalone’s throat, and in response, Pantalone swallows hard and shivers.
"Would you like to find out?"
"You're nothing but artifice and snake oil."
"Are we measuring our sins against one another now? You'll take an interest in anything that shines, anything you could make money off of." He clucks his tongue. "I bet you'd even sell your body. Were you ever desperate enough to play a common whore?"
"Ahh — how crude…"
"I'm just thinking out loud," Dottore drawls. His cold hands are tracing their way down the side of Pantalone's shirt, dancing around the waist of his trousers. "I wouldn't judge you. In fact, I'd probably buy you all up for myself. Make sure it was taken care of. Would you like that, little prince? I promise I'd treat you alright."
When Dottore drags his sharp teeth against Pantalone's jugular, he realizes he's been holding his breath.
"No biting," he whispers. A ribbon of tea crawls across the tablecloth, pooling into the roots of Pantalone's hair. His teacup must've been knocked over. He's particular about grooming and keeping up his appearances which Dottore very much knows, so this irks him, but at least it will wash out and it smells lovely.
"Can't promise." Dottore leans his head in so the neutral warmth of his words runs across the shell of Pantalone's ear. Pantalone sighs and rocks his hips up just to hear the shift in Dottore's breath.
"You're supposed to be penitent right now."
"Must've forgotten already."
One second later, Pantalone's being dragged down the tablecloth, shoved in his knees to the lush, carpeted ground. Dottore's already unbuckled one of the three belts around his waist one one hand, the other grabbing a fistful of Pantalone's hair at the scalp. Pantalone futilely paws at Dottore's wrists as the click of the belt buckles open and click against one another.
"Why so many?" he pouts.
"You're spoiled and impatient." Dottore snaps. "On your knees — it must remind you of the days when you begged like this on the streets. A thing like you should’ve turned out humbled and obedient.”
"At least let me move my glasses—"
Dottore pulls hard on his hair, cranking his head back. Pantalone whines petulantly, moving his hands to soothe his scalp instead.
"Actually I've decided I want you to keep those on."
"Just be careful, please." He says this because he has to as a precaution, to say that he said it, because as anticipates, Dottore only laughs.
Pantalone knows the next step of this charade: he lets go of his sore scalp, moving to run his hands up and down the planes of the doctor's abdomen, his hips, his erection. Dottore loosens his grip on Pantalone's locks, hissing a sigh when Pantalone kisses the frenulum beneath the head of his cock, because Dottore likes it when Pantalone is all sweet, a foil to whatever brutal things he'll be subjected to later.
Pantalone's very good at doing this — giving people what they want.
(For something in return, of course.)
He moves his hands to Dottore's thighs as he runs his tongue up and down his shaft. He whines when he takes Dottore halfway into his mouth and Dottore jerks his hips forward a little too far, too fast. Then Pantalone unlocks his jaw, slipping his tongue out so Dottore can push the head of his cock back and forth along it.
“I’m surprised you can still get it up," Pantalone pulls back and whispers. "I thought you’d recently replaced all your blood.”
“Replaced, not entirely discarded. Now humor me, pretend you’re excited. Or do I need to flash my wallet?”
"It wouldn't hurt," he says, batting his lashes.
Dottore laughs and groans at the same time. His voice comes out raspy and low.
"Touch yourself. I'm sure the prospect of a few paltry coins was more than enough to get you excited." Pantalone's been aching for relief since Dottore threw him back onto the table, but this is how he navigates the game they're playing. Pantalone pulls at his clothing, shuffling back and forth on his sore knees until he's got himself in his hand.
Dottore coos in delight — he really likes when Pantalone just listens and doesn't come up with some pithy response. He readjusts his grip in Pantalone's hair, then fucks himself all the way back into Pantalone's mouth.
The back of his head bumps against the edge of the table again and again, and Pantalone's dizzy with how much his head hurts, the lack of oxygen from getting fucked in the face, the way he unfortunately just can't get enough of all of this. He pumps his length with short, fast strokes as Dottore leans his open hand on the table for leverage, and now Pantalone’s fully trapped, impaled against the table dressings.
Dottore expectedly isn't kind at all, which Pantalone prefers. Dottore fucks him fast and hard, never really leaving a second to catch a breath, using his grip on Pantalone's hair to go as deep as he can. The head of his cock reaches all the way back to Pantalone's throat, and tears begin to sting and well up in his eyes. He can barely see through them to catch Dottore preening at the sight — he thinks it's cute when Pantalone cries like this, his exact words — and when they start running down his face, what’s visible of the doctor's composure cracks and he pushes himself as deep as he can possibly muster.
Pantalone's glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, skewed and smeared with tears. It smells like candied fruit and chemicals. Being used and jerking off to it feels so good his thighs shake along with the silverware and belt buckles clattering above him.
Otherwise it's not so loud here. So much for testing the soundproofing, today. His whimpers get choked out on the dick pumping inside him. His jaw will ache fiercely tomorrow morning. Dottore's groaning under his breath but he has impossible stamina from refining, reconstructing his body. He could go all day, he'd said, if he wanted to, and once they'd tested it out. Pantalone didn't last long that time, and he doesn't this time either.
Dottore keeps himself in Pantalone's throat when Pantalone comes, and what a sight he must look: nose pushed up against Dottore's abdomen, wet face, tea-stained hair, flushed cheeks, trembling hands — the one with his favorite rings pumping his erection slick with come, the other pawing at Dottore, trying to push him back to catch a breath. The room around him swirls with cinnamon and camphor. He digs his nails into Dottore's hips, only enough to draw a little blood.
Dottore pulls out and Pantalone's lungs burn with relief, gasping for air. Pantalone doesn't see what happens next — thin splatters of cum cover his glasses, covering his face and running down the corner of his lips. Dottore watches him flick his tongue out, catching a drop. Dottore tastes like nothing.
There's no dignified way to clean this mess from his face. Dottore smooths his hair back with startlingly gentle fingers, pulls one of those lacy napkins and wipes along Pantalone's cheekbone, then runs it along his lenses.
"How pretty. My little prince, all fucked-out and covered in my cum. What a mess. ”
Pantalone widens his eyes and furrows his brow when he looks up. “Doctor, you’ve ruined my tea party. My lapsang souchong is drenching my hair.”
Dottore laughs as he tucks his shirt in and tightens his belts back into place. "You should clean up. Wouldn't want to crawl back up the stairs of your fairytale spire looking like this."
Pantalone won't dignify that with an answer. He straightens his frames, gingerly taking the napkin to dab at his face. His knees are numb when he stands up to walk over towards the washroom.
When he returns, Dottore is leaning back in one of the chairs, picking apart a petit four with his fingers, dropping crumbs across the ruined table spread.
"So wasteful," Pantalone mutters.
"I've excellent hearing, dear. I heard that. Come here, I'll feed you the rest."
Dottore holds out two of his fingers.
"Here. You can lick the icing from my fingers."
Pantalone takes his time sucking the pale blue frosting from the ends of Dottore's glove, watching the smugness grow under Dottore's mask as he licks between the knuckles. Then he bites down as hard as he can, breaking through skin.
Dottore doesn't even flinch.
"I thought you said no biting. Now where are your manners?"
"I think we've moved past them by now, don't you think? Tea time is over." Pantalone wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Under the sugar, it tastes of your wolfhook poison."
"I’m impressed. Remind me to test out that sensitive palette of yours,” he says. “And it probably wouldn’t have killed you. A bit of drowsiness, diminished muscle control, maybe."
"I shudder to think of what someone like you would do to some poor, innocent creature like me..."
Pantalone retrieves his coat from the back of his chair. Dottore stands up to help him wrap it around his shoulders, leaning into Pantalone’s ear.
"Put that imagination of yours to use. Then let me know what you come up with. If it’s within my means, I’ll try to make it happen.”
Dottore escorts him to the door and leans in for a kiss. Oh, now that's comically absurd. Pantalone kissed him once many, many years ago. Dottore bit his tongue so hard Pantalone squealed like a stuck pig, blood ran down their chins and soaked through their shirts. Dottore refused to let go for ten entire minutes. Pantalone went to another physician, who balked and said he could've lost his tongue entirely.
He pushes Dottore's mask back with all the politeness he can muster. After all — he doesn't want to be rude to his host.
"It was good seeing you, Doctor. Perhaps next time, you'll join me in my suite for refreshments."
The scent of tea and soap follows Pantalone out of the room.
In the comfort of his own quarters, Pantalone sits counting a great pile of Mora at his desk. He already knows precisely how many there are, but when he winds down for the evening, he finds the sound of coins clinking against each other soothing. He lines them up in neat piles to be taken to the palace's vaults by his attendants in the morning.
And next to those piles lies a leather coin purse stained with blood and Tsaritsa knows what other foul fluids Dottore plays around with.
He'd slipped it from Dottore's jacket when they took tea last week, in the middle of getting railed in the face. Pantalone picked pockets for years — longer than he's been a Harbinger — and even though he hasn't needed to resort to it for years, it's a neat little skill, and it's good to know that he's still got it.
He would've been more pleased if he'd retrieved some Mora to begin recouping the massive loss that still graced his ledgers. He wasn't pleased at all at what he found inside the purse.
Pantalone is stacking the last of his Mora pile when he hears the click of his door unlatch and swing open. He isn't expecting anyone, and his attendants always knock. The disruption startles him, and one of his precious coin stacks falls over.
His irritation only multiplies when he sees who's entered.
"I was wondering if I'd find you here. Though I don't know where else you'd be, since you're always hiding away in your little tower."
"You're not supposed to be here. In fact, I'm quite certain I've told the guards to keep you in particular out, doctor."
"How could you be so callous towards me? I only wanted to say goodbye, seeing as I'm leaving for an assignment tonight."
"You've gotten better at feigning hurt, but not lying. When you lie to someone, you need to make them believe it."
Dottore ignores him and ambles over to the desk. "What's this? It looks familiar."
"Of course it does. The pouch belongs to you."
"And how did something like this come into your possession?"
"Slipped it right from your pockets. Did you really not notice?"
"Now I'm doubly hurt. But once a beggar, always a beggar, I suppose."
Pantalone clenches his jaw. "How did you get in here?"
"Walked in," Dottore shrugs. When he doesn't get an answer, he rests his palms on the desk and leans over. "Like you, I have my own methods of persuasion."
Pantalone thinks he might actually kill him if there's a bloodbath waiting outside his office.
Dottore tips Pantalone's chin up with a finger. "You look cute when you're angry."
"Our accounts are short one million pieces of Mora. Your expense report is the only one that doesn't add up."
"You're the one in charge of the money. I do my job, and yours is to balance the numbers. I've not a clue what could have caused such an unaccounted for loss."
"Again with the lying…"
"And you just thought I'd just be carrying all of that around on my person?"
"There was nothing but counterfeit Mora, anyway."
"That were minted on your orders."
So once again, Dottore had caught Pantalone off guard. Sometimes the only option in a difficult conversation is to mete out a healthy dose of silence. Sometimes the best answer is nothing at all.
Dottore heaves a sigh as he takes back the coin purse. It returns it to his jacket, then he carefully lifts his mask just enough for Pantalone to see his face.
"In any case, I leave the palace tonight. Work always comes first, so you’ll have to bide your time and I’ll make this up to you later. Look, I've even brought you a gift.” Dottore presses a cool kiss on Pantalone’s forehead, presses something small into his palm. “Let's not wait so long to see each other again!"
The mask returns, and Dottore saunters out of the room. Once he’s left, Pantalone unfurls his fingers:
A single piece of Mora, freshly minted, shiny and cold in the palm of his hand. This one is authentic.
He'll be short nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine pieces of Mora now.
Pantalone sighs and stacks it neatly on the top of his piles.