Chapter Text
Under Dottore's mask is a plethora of atrocities. Scars and scabs and bruises all paint a picture of an identity lost to time and reforged out of flame and vitriol.
He detests it.
At first, when he was younger and dumber, he adored the disgusting visage that peered at him through the mirrors. He was so, so attracted to the inherent beauty of destruction and its many forms. He loved the horror on people's faces when they saw him. Children would cower and men wouldn't meet his eyes. He relished in the attention.
He doesn't anymore.
It's not insecurity; he knows that well. It's disgust. He hates being feared for something minuscule rather than his actions. He hates being the monster that he never created himself. Every word said about him, rather than to his face or his back should be about him. Not his scars.
He sees his face so little anymore that he feels a wave of nausea when he catches sight of it in one of the very large mirrors in its owner's space. He never asked for them- they came installed on the walls well before he transferred. The room had been Pantalone's some time ago before the man decided to flaunt a little more. Threw some money into commodities. He seems to like the power he holds over harbingers of higher ranking, and it strikes a nerve in Dottore's head. Petulant!
He meets his own eyes offhandedly, discomfort rolling up his spine as he does so. How the tables have turned- the fabled "Doctor" disgusted by the wounds he used to hold dear. Only he would ever find the irony.
He turns away, a thought in the back of his cerebral nagging at him. It names the flaws in his reactions in some chaotic fashion fueled by the flummoxing conclusion he's drawn about himself. The stupidity.
He can't possibly be the most reverent of the harbingers if he's still plagued by this doubt and disgust for himself. Psychology dictates it can't possibly be.
He shakes his head akin to a fool and drifts off about his room to find his mask. He had thrown it off of him in a huff when his oxidation and reduction had proved useless some time ago. His face had been getting beady with sweat from his hairline- he'd opted to shower his annoyance off with something miserably cold.
The mask, as he finds it, rests neatly beside a vase of wilted flowers. Glaze Lilies, as had been the subject of his scrutiny during a particular rut in his work. He had gotten bored.
He would never admit he had gotten pleasantly used to their presence on one of his desks, though his pride hadn't allowed him the will to take care of them. They now paint a dreary scene, one that feels awfully fitting. He doesn't grimace as he should have. Just sweeps them a look before grabbing his mask with greedy hands.
He's pulling it over his face with practiced movements when there's a racket at his door. Knocking, he realizes, face falling from an already low look. And it's urgent, meaning he's requested. Vile.
"Wait." He growls, just loud enough to travel across the space. The word is full of the most disgust and annoyance he can muster- enough to kill. How many people are stupid enough to bother him at a time like this? A few dozen? (They had been handed some recruits a few days ago. Though, he would think they'd learn quickly enough so as to not incur his wrath. He thought wrong, which is not a common occurrence.)
He doesn't hear footsteps backing away in terror or panic, so when he fixes the back of his mask and pulls hair over the thing, he sulks over to the door. It's a childish display, to say the least.
Dottore opens the door to an unwelcome surprise. Pantalone, dressed to the nines as is seemingly customary, greets him silently: with a hideous and facetious smile.
Dottore has never closed a door so fast in his life, but he supposes there's a first for everything.
After some persuading and a few monetary threats, the door is opened again with some chagrin. Blue meets black, akin to Dottore's bruises and just as ugly a combination. He looks up (Pantalone mocks him for his height, but he is perfectly normal in terms of Teyvat's national average. Pantalone just likes to gloat, it seems.
He only realizes he isn't dressed all the way when the other man looks him up and down with a quirk in his eyebrow.
"Doing some... strenuous activities, doctor?" His voice is sickly sweet and dripping. Dottore winces.
"I don't know what you mean." It's obvious he had showered even if there wasn't any steam. His hair is messy and sticking up at the ends, glistening as it dries slowly. He smells like sterilization, simply due to his after-shower routine of applying ointment and harsh sterile chemicals to his face. He can't get infected anymore, he now just finds the burn comforting, the smell pleasant and nostalgic.
His lips curl in the opposite direction Pantalone's does.
"Is this about funding? I paid you back in full last week and I don't have anything large scheduled until a month out. I hardly need-" He's cut off by the other man shaking his head and holding up a hand.
"No, no. This is hardly business. You met your deadlines." Dottore internally breathes a sigh of relief, though he'd never admit it. The traits he hates about Pantalone are exacerbated when it comes to his money. He's hardly afraid of the man, but his influence is a whole other ballpark.
"I simply came to give my favourite doctor a visit. After all, since you don't have any deadlines coming up, you're mostly free. Is that correct?"
Dottore lies when he says "It isn't," and it's clear Pantalone can see through his bluff. (He never was a very good liar- academics and acting don't inherently go hand in hand. Neither do those and volatility.)
The other man's face falls, just a sliver, and Dottore feels discomfort creeping throughout his body. He could vomit. He unconsciously wrings his hands together.
"I find that very hard to believe." Pantalone gestures around the room behind Dottore. "There's not much work you could be doing in here."
A flare of indignant rage bubbles up in Dottore, and against his best judgement, he falls for the bait so easily set up for him.
"For your information, I've been busy with studying the chemical properties and reactions of-"
Pantalone cuts him off by grabbing his wrist in an almost-bruising grip.
"Then show me, doctor."
There's a wildfire in his eyes, and Dottore thaws to pliability.
While he works explaining the mechanisms behind his experiments that are so inherently basic, Pantalone watches, seemingly enraptured. He cocks his head at concepts that don't quite make sense and nods to those that do.
It makes Dottore swell with something grossly similar to pride.
Sometimes when Dottore stops to focus on something, words failing, he feels Pantalone's eyes boring into his back. He resists the urge to turn back, because the look the man must be giving him is certainly predatory.
Perhaps it's pathetic, the shiver down his spine. The goosebumps over his skin. His teeth gnawing into his lips. His genuine discomfort around the other man.
Dottore sees the reaction as a result of Pantalone's incessant obsession. He can deal with grunts. He can deal with the harbingers. He can deal with everyone and everything with a sharp-tooth smile and a threat. Pantalone is an anomaly, one he couldn't have prepared for. Who would show this much unbridled interest in him without intending to quarter and dissect him? They all want his brain in a jar.
Except for Pantalone, allegedly.
Dottore pauses his ministrations and turns, slowly. There's a sickeningly sticky feeling in his body. His organs are melting and his blood is jelly. His eyes are wide.
Pantalone watches him from his position, stretched out across the sofa that faces the tables. He grins, eyes curving into that trademark look that Dottore hates. Every nerve in his body is alight and he hears them crackle.
"Pantalone. Why do you insist on bothering me?"
The man puts a finger to his lips and chuckles.
"Weren't you the one who was entirely willing to entertain me?"
Dottore grimaces and glares at Pantalone, unable to contest. 'Entertain!' How presumptuous!
"I didn't do that for you!" He snarls. Pantalone laughs.
"Perhaps, then, you could focus on me now? I feel as if I'm being mistreated." The words are syrupy and Dottore chokes on his awe.
"Absolutely NOT" He almost yells, pointing at the door. "Leave! Now!"
Pantalone leaves with a flourish, smirking like the bastard he is, leaving Dottore to slump against a wall, boneless.
The next time Dottore is bothered, he is prepared. Everything that could possibly happen in the presence of the banker has been filed away in his mind. He will be the feared fatui harbinger that he is, and a well-dressed creep won't change that.
It's not conventional, the way Pantalone approaches him this time. Stress presents itself between the man's eyebrows and in his hands, wrung together as he takes large, anxious strides down a corridor furnished with sconces and tacky wallpaper. Dottore watches and follows many paces behind, a toothed grin plastered on his face.
Something bad had happened to the Regrator, and with regards to his name and tendencies, it was surely something to do with his precious mora. Dottore could jump with excitement.
It only hits him later, while he's in his lab, that he never got to speak to the other man about the funding he had planned on asking about. And knowing the Regrator's mood, it was likely that would have to wait.
His mood could hardly be dampened by such a thing, but anxiety still prickles at his scalp anyway.
He's caught a third time attempting to sneak out of his room without being spotted, a scowl crossing his face under the wretched mask that does little but placate.
While he walks, he hears unpleasantly familiar voices reverberating off the walls, and he tries to ignore them. All he has to do is grab the flasks he left in the fume hood and then return to his safe space. Although, the lab really should be his safe space, but unfortunately there’s not much substance in staying within its depths. There haven’t been many requests as of late, and therefore there has been no funding toward any of his personal projects. Usually, he asks for extra when he’s doing work for the Tsaritsa and then just buys the necessary materials for his own work with the leftovers but that’s been impossible.
He rounds a corner and almost takes Pantalone out as he spaces out.
The man grunts lowly and grabs Dottore’s shoulders, steadying him as nothing short of adrenaline courses through the doctor’s body. A combination of ‘fight’ and ‘flight’, perhaps.
“Ah, careful. What’s all this slinking around for? You almost killed... Well. Both of us.”
Ripping himself from the other’s grasp, Dottore scoffs and brushes himself off with almost frantic motions.
“Somehow better than whatever is coming next, I presume?” His words are laced with vitriol and murderous intent, ripping a chuckle from the banker’s lips and delicate-looking throat. Dottore finds disgust in the way his eyes lock onto the man’s Adam's apple with fascination. It must be the ‘doctor’ in him, akin to eyeing a subject. (Poor reasoning, his frontal lobe seethes.)
“Hardly. I wasn’t actively seeking you out, you know. You ran into me.”
A grimace and then a sigh. Dottore’s patience is being tested, the extent of his ‘preparations’ included. Perhaps he needs to start sending out grunts to do work like this.
“I’m not in the mood, Regrator.”
“Are you ever?”
“Leave me alone.”
“I like the way you say my name.”
The doctor pauses at that, mouth opening and freezing mid-thought.
“...Hah?”
He only looks up when the Regrator starts to take his leave, wide-berth steps with pointed, adorned boots that-
“Wait.” His mouth acts before his brain, but his voice is too quiet out of his surprise, and Pantalone doesn’t hear him. Words go unsaid in the stagnant but heavy air.
“It’s not even your given name!”
While he’s hidden away in his lab, chuckling as he scribbles notes like a madman, there comes a knock that is turning quickly familiar. He pauses instead of jumping, bottom lip caught between sharp teeth. He bites down and tastes blood.
“Nh... One second.” It’s a courtesy few are allocated when in his presence (patience), and it feels almost wrong to hand it so readily over to the banker. However, there isn’t enough resistance left in his body and he isn’t fond of forcing emotions if they’re negative. He sweeps papers and forms off to the side, making a mess in the process. Some fall gracefully to the floor. They’re all useless anyway- forms for taxes and spending and human ethics. Trite.
Somehow, despite his pliancy, as soon as he opens the door he wants to slam it in Pantalone's face again. Just for fun.
They share an awkward glance, neither knowing what to say. It somehow feels worse than confrontation; something in Dottore’s stomach curdles and he coughs lightly.
“What is it that you wanted?” He mutters, eyeing the other man warily. The banker laughs, silken black hair bouncing with the motion. Dottore feels something in his stomach shrivel up and die.
“Entertainment, dear doctor.”
He will never be able to, in his lifetime, explain what reasoning his brain conjured up to let the man inside a second time. It wasn’t fear, nor fascination. It was a third, more sinister feeling that curled tendrils into his throat and choked him from the inside out. It was exhilarating.
He must have become addicted to this feeling. It was all he could use to justify his actions- the way he watched Pantalone from afar, drinking the same tea as him, watching his throat contract and his lips brush porcelain. And when their eyes meet, he feels as if he is being skinned alive in those shared seconds. As if Pantalone had taken a scalpel and sliced him from sternum to pelvis, skin pushed softly to the side by gloved hands adorned with regal designs, leaving them hanging off his ribs so that he may have full access to Dottore’s muscles. Perhaps he would then eye them with that hungry look of his, purple eyes rising to meet his own for just a second before falling back upon the man lying bare beneath him. And Dottore would beg with his eyes, desperate for that contact that lights his nerves in so many different ways. The warmth of a hand against his organs chilled blue by open contact with the air, the swell in his chest he would get when praised for his complacency.
Pantalone would take his heart, connected by weaving strings of viscera and arteries, desperately holding on to the rest of him with little notable resistance as Pantalone inspects his subject. Dottore would struggle not to tremble and shudder and thrash at the sensation, whimpering and pleading with heavy breaths that choke him mercilessly.
The sound of a teacup half-full hitting the ground and shattering on impact startles him at the same time Pantalone tears his heart from its pretty prison.
It takes him a second, just one, to realize that the dropped cup was none other than his own, released in reaction to the image he himself conjured up in his mind. Two more and he realizes that he’s half hard in his pants, staring off into the wall directly behind the Regrator sitting on his sofa.
He starts to panic a bit, looking at the other man to see that he’s simply staring at him inquisitively, clearly slightly startled by the clamor. Good.
“Shit,” Dottore mutters, far too late. He turns and darts off to find a broom and some towels while shame courses through his body. As he sweeps through the contents of his closet, focused solely on the task at hand, footsteps echo through the rooms of the expanse. Pantalone must be attempting to sneak around and find something. And for all Dottore cares, he can keep at it. Nothing he has would be of any use to the Regrator anyhow. He locates the broom swiftly, but the towels are nowhere to be seen, so he stands up with a huff to search for them elsewhere. That is until he turns and nearly runs into Pantalone for the second time that day. With a cry (shriek), he backs up only to hit his closet and be stopped dead in his miserable tracks.
“Ah… Did I scare you?”
Pantalone’s voice is soft, uncharacteristically so. This, coupled with his practically towering over Dottore (he’s cowering) makes the masked man shudder and shake his head violently, raising his hands to push Pantalone away with gloved hands. Though, his miserable effort is met by a steady mind, and Pantalone grabs his wrists with a grip firm enough to bruise.
“Dottore?”
The facade breaks. A name, all it takes is a name bestowed upon him out of necessity.
He flinches away and rips his arms away with the force he should have been able to use previously. Though now, he isn’t confined by mortal feelings or travails.
“If you’re going to mock me, might I remind you of our position?”
Pantalone steps back, almost sheepish-looking.
“I am far above you in rank. You… this… shamelessness is revulsive.” His words are intentionally harsh, though from the looks of it, Pantalone is... Deliberating, rather than seemingly bothered by them in any way. Nevertheless, Dottore continues.
“I refuse to be talked down to like a child, I allowed you into my residence out of the graciousness of my hea- wh- what are you doing?!’
Pantalone, imprudently, seems to have lost his mind, because while Dottore was ranting, his hand came up, dangerously close to the doctor’s face. And within a single minuscule second, without Dottore even considering what the other man could have possibly been thinking, his lip was grabbed. Forcefully.
He attempts to rip away, but somehow Pantalone’s grip is steadfast, and within another second his other hand rises to steady Dottore’s chin with a thumb and an index finger. Somehow, he can feel the warmth of Pantalone’s hand, and the pulse of his thumb against his skin. His expression curls into disgust, but he can’t find a voice to respond to the transgression with. Rather, he allows Pantalone to essentially cradle him with eyes sharp as a cat’s- staring at him like he’s some sort of treat.
“The way you talk- like I’m beneath you due to ranking alone. How.. tasteless.”
The fingers on his lip travel upward- into his mouth -and he struggles a bit before Pantalone moves the other hand from his jaw to his neck, holding him with a light pressure against his jugular. The Regrator uses his index finger to trace the edges of Dottore’s teeth, the material of his gloves uncomfortable and almost stifling in his mouth. Saliva pools and he swallows nervously. Pantalone grins.
“You value your title so heavily that all I can imagine is that you’re violently insecure.”
Dottore’s eyes widen under his mask.
“A hideous creature using the fanciful and heralded titles granted to him as a lifeline.” The thumb in his mouth is suddenly shoved back, right up against his tongue. He chokes on his shock, and then his saliva, both hands scrabbling up to the ends of his coat where he grasps desperately. A plea of sorts. He can’t handle this psychoanalysis, especially not from the Regrator.
Instead of stopping, the man continues in that same, inquisitive yet unfazed tone.
“Why value your vices so heavily? What use is there to hide yourself from the people who already disgust you?”
His finger strokes up Dottore’s tongue, then up to the roof of his mouth where it runs over the ridges of his palate. If the doctor wanted to, he could bite the extremity off and drink the man’s blood. Would it be a sweet, rich iron? Or mellow and somewhat abhorrent like the owner? His lip curls, but he can’t say anything with his mouth... Occupied, so he glares instead.
“Then, having heard all this, what if I told you something you may enjoy?”
Pantalone’s face eases in, closer and closer to the Doctor’s until they are almost nose to nose and the other’s breath tickles his cupid’s bow. The closeness is uncomfortable, the will to shut his eyes washing over Dottore.
“What if I said I didn’t detest that monster, and rather found myself to be unabashedly fond of it?”
Without giving the recipient time to respond, (perhaps a wise move), Pantalone squeezes Dottore’s neck while pressing back down on his tongue, eliciting a somewhat pained noise while the hands on his coat tug down in a desperate bid to make the man stop. He’s teasing him, with his honeyed words and delicate voice. It makes Dottore’s heart ache in a way that hurts so miserably, the rotten thing pounding against his ribcage painfully.
He shakes his head, words failing. His eyebrows are knit together miserably.
“Why would I lie? The only reason you so desperately deny it is because you know I wouldn’t. I don’t gain anything from lying- if I was disgusted by you I wouldn’t be in this room.”
Dottore must look pathetic then, because resignation creeps into his bones and nervous system. His shoulders fall, and his grip on the man’s clothing falters then releases entirely. Though the Regrator cannot see his eyes, he must look pathetic nonetheless.
“Don’t look like that- it makes me feel guilty.”
You should be, Dottore’s mind yells.
Though, when Pantalone leans in and presses a chaste kiss to the top of his head, his entire being throws all caution to the wind.