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The welcome banquet is held in Zapolyarny Palace’s prodigious grand hall, and no expense has been spared. Embroidered banners unfurl from frosted balconies in azure ripples while garlands of winter honeysuckle twist up the colonnades, lush and fragrant with cream-white blooms. Lights shimmer from small glass lanterns, a thousand stars stolen from Celestia itself.
Bedecked in decadent livery, attendants promenade with trays of canapés: blini capped with citrus-cured seabream, ceviche laced with crème fraiche pearls, luscious crab roe served in nacre bowls—the bounty of Teyvat procured upon the currents of global trade.
It has the Regrator’s stylings, this splendid display of wealth and power. Everywhere is a sight to behold, from ice-carved corvids with crystal wings to tables draped in of cloth-of gold. Gold, so much gold, gleaming in abundance, and a fortune flowing in wine, liquid gold poured by the same command that directs the land’s lifeblood.
Amidst this arrant lavishness, guests dressed in their finery spill false flatteries with all the trappings of diplomacy.
These are the petty politics in which Pantalone thrives. Wealth breeds wealth. How easy it is to have dignitaries eating from the palm of his hand, naïve to the schemes concealed by his genteel smile. Blackmail and bribery, commerce and collusion—these are weapons as persuasive as a rapier. Upon this festive stage, the Regrator orchestrates the exchange of commodities, of information, of control.
Ah, but there is only one problem. His guest of honour is conspicuously absent.
Clasping his hands at his sternum, Pantalone scans the immense hall in ostensive repose. Leaving the Second Harbinger to his own devices had been a considerable oversight, he thinks with some asperity. No matter. He espies Dottore soon enough, slouching in an alcove. From above, the lancet windows spill slants of moonlight that bleach his hair and limn his silhouette.
“—far more profitable quarter. D-due to your boundless generosity, of course, L-lord Harbinger.”
Glass glints, cold and unerring. Pantalone’s bespectacled gaze returns to the sycophant at his side, a meek creature from Fontaine whose midnight blue gaudery does little credit to his station.
“Good sir, this is a celebration,” Pantalone says airily. Bejeweled rings shine, a hand sweeping toward the banquet with an elegant gesture. A single immaculate brow rises above crescent-curved eyes. “I might almost be inclined to believe you are not offering uncontrived compliments so much as begging for favor, and so soon in the proceedings!”
He watches the color drain from the young man’s face with relish.
“M-my Lor—”
Pantalone leaves the dandy stumbling over an effusive apology. How dull, the unequivocal inexperience of a parvenu. Pantalone prefers them be at least aware of the games in which they fancy themselves players. Pawns performing plots they cannot hope to sustain, entirely ignorant of what’s at stake—why, it’s hardly any fun at all.
Dottore, however…
A sea of silk, a froth of lace. Guests part politely around Pantalone as he cuts through the crowd, plucking two flutes of wine from a passing tray. Silently, he materializes in the Doctor’s shadow.
“Skulking in the wings like a petulant child,” he tuts. “Why, you’re as rude as some of our distinguished guests.”
Dottore startles, his fidgeting fingers fumbling a set of interlocked gears. Pantalone experiences a frisson of delight at having caught him so off guard.
“I’m here, am I not?” Rage roughens the rasp of his words, the whip-snap cadence spat out through a scowl. Quick as it came, fury fades to charade; Dottore stuffs the trinket into his pocket and affects a condescending bow, twisting his wrist with a flourish. “In the flesh.”
“Mm, the flesh indeed.” Amusement lifts from Pantalone’s voice, rich and velvet smooth. “How enchanting to find Il Dottore himself at one of my fêtes. Although, I must credit some of the other Segments with far better manners. They at least can pantomime sociability.”
“Tch.” Dottore waves a contemptuous hand. “Trivialities. I am a scholar, not a peacock to be pranced before lickspittles and parasitic menials. Rote pageantry holds no interest to my elevated mind. My unparalleled capacity lies in in the utility of experimentation, not playing pretend with the peerage.”
“Such arrogance.” Pantalone’s cordial smile never falters. “Neither rank nor rationality absolve you of duty. A triumphant return to the Winter Palace occasions recognition. Felicitations, by the way. Two Gnoses and the creation of a heretical god beside—it’s impressive, even for our Wise Doctor.”
He passes a wineglass to Dottore, nimble fingers flitting up to pry the beaked mask from his face. A seamless exchange. Silver-streaked locks glance off his leather glove and Pantalone’s knuckles brush them back before he sets the mask on the window ledge.
“Your sleight of hand may be enough to beguile your obsequious invitees, but I see through the farce.” Dottore’s exposed eyes go darkly murderous. “This is little more than a garish fundraiser to line your coffers.” Belligerent, he tips back his head and downs his wine in a single swallow. The empty glass slams beside his mask, a hairline crack creeping up the slender bowl like a lick of frost, its elegance made brittle.
“Temper, temper.” Pantalone takes a slow sip of his own drink, lips lingering on the crystal rim, slick with sizzling effervescence. Beneath the valence of dark lashes, his violet eyes shine like cut gemstones. “Seldom have you seemed averse to my mora.”
Behind them rises the din of dialogue and musicians’ tunes, lute strings lyricizing in the starlit room.
“Bribery, Regrator?”
Sudden as a storm, Dottore’s fingers fist in the luscious waves of Pantalone’s hair, twisting through the obsidian strands. He yanks, his bright, inhuman eyes latched onto Pantalone’s straining throat, on his mouth wet with wine and curving up in deadly satisfaction.
So, the Doctor is in the mood to play.
A shift, a shadow. Lightning fast, Dottore’s back collides with the column. Pantalone pins him to the frigid marble, an insinuating thigh sliding between Dottore’s own, a gloved hand curled around his wrist like a talon, gripping so hard that Dottore’s carpel bones grind together.
“My, my, in front of our guests. So bold.” Pantalone skims his lips over the chiseled line of Dottore’s jaw, inhaling the bitter, antiseptic scent of him—iodine and isopropyl and the asphyxiating purity of ether. “But if this is what it takes for you to join the celebration…”
Obscured by towering pillars and ice-glazed foliage, the two Harbingers blur into a solitary shadow, the window’s winter light casting them in evocative chiaroscuro. A shifting silhouette, their hips roll slowly, a glacial waltz performed to the dissonance of idle chatter.
Through the luxurious weave of his suit, Pantalone can feel the incriminating evidence of Dottore’s desire stirring, and he laughs, violet eyes shining with greed.
“How human this body of yours is,” he croons. “I had almost forgotten.”
Before Dottore can bark out an acerbic riposte, Pantalone releases his wrist and shoves two gloved fingers past his lips.
“Mmph.” Dottore’s features contort with choler, wrath rising at the tang of leather on his tongue, the metallic echo of counterfeit coins, the resinous hint of lampblack ink. He clamps his jaw down, biting hard.
Pantalone doesn’t flinch.
His merciless smile only sharpens—a scalpel, a scythe, a hunter’s bow pitched for its prey—and he thrusts his fingers deeper, down to the second knuckle, deeper until Dottore gags on them, throat tightening, saliva shining at the corners of his reddening lips. Craving coils in Pantalone’s core, a hollow hunger, a malicious lust that makes his stomach clench. Familiar, this deep, possessive greed.
Oh, he had missed this. The inherence of several of the Segments’ gag reflexes had always been a lovely indulgence. But it pales to insignificance when held up against the visceral pleasure of making Dottore choke. Of watching his eyes water; of witnessing his defiance attenuate.
Past the palisade of serrated teeth, Dottore’s mouth is soft and pliant, more tender and malleable than the rest of him. Pantalone’s deft fingers cajole his tongue, probing his gums, the raw insides of his cheek, idly fucking his mouth while Snezhnaya’s socialites simper only metres away. Shuddering, Dottore allows his tongue to sweep over the leather’s stitching, his hips undulating against Pantalone’s own. His gaze has glazed over, his undiminished but alloyed, now, with perilous arousal.
This has always been Pantalone’s favorite part.
“Much better.” His fingers leave Dottore’s mouth with an obscenely slick sound, his black glove glistening with spit. Pantalone thumbs indolently over the scar that scallops Dottore’s lower lip. “You know, Doctor, if a willing appearance is beneath you, I would gladly guide you around this humble gala on the end of a leash.”
Even through the fever daze of desire, Dottore’s reaction is instantaneous. He laughs, a full-bodied guffaw that leaves him clutching his sides, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
Pantalone indulges the theatrics with unfading patience, sipping his wine through a benign smile.
“Ha! Hehe! Hoho! How very amusing,” Dottore gasps between wheezing chuckles. Still he grinds against Pantalone’s thigh. It’s terribly charming the way he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “Oh, you do surprise me sometimes, my darling banker. But your threat is as empty as your celebrants’ minds.”
“Is it?” Pantalone asks complacently.
Stepping back, he reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a silver chain, finely made with lacelike links that scintillate in the spectral moonglow. It sways, suspended from a fingertip, enchanting against a backdrop of black leather.
“You—!”
Pantalone devours the sight of Dottore’s eyes widening, carmine darkened now to wine—intrigued, enraged, eager. His breath comes quick. Even he isn’t immune to his body’s more carnal whims.
“It would be a most intriguing experiment, Zandik,” Pantalone purrs. “Don’t you think?”
An invocation: the Second Harbinger’s unrivaled return with two Gnoses in hand and Pantalone’s claim around his throat, the Godmaker guided by an argent lead, bound and collared by his own volition, a chain so delicate as to border on insult.
The thought is immeasurably alluring.
Dottore blinks rapidly and rattles his head. “Delusion has addled your fragile mind,” he sneers. “The mere fact of your convenience does not grant you amnesty. You overestimate my tolerance for your games.” Harsh words, but his tone is rather unconvincing.
“That’s a no, then?” Pantalone laughs and it’s nearly genuine, a liquid sound, honeyed and oversweet. “Such a pity.”
The chain slinks back into his pocket with a lucent chime, elusive as a spill of quicksilver. He watches Dottore track the links’ egression with something that resembles regret.
Pantalone holds his half-filled glass up to the light, enjoying the sight of candleflame catching on the sparkling wine. His throat bobs as he swallows the final sips; it burns over his tongue, lively with vibrant citrus flavour. He sets the stemware aside.
“Only a poor financier trades in empty threats.” Pantalone’s palms land on Dottore’s shoulders and he begin to set him to rights, straightening his sleeves, smoothing the creases from his vest. When thumbs rasp Dottore’s nipples through the wool, it almost appears unintentional.
Dottore shivers, but he stands still and endures the Regrator’s possessive touch with uncommon obedience, breathless and expectant. Pantalone feasts on the sight, sinking his teeth into the inside of his own cheek until he tastes blood. Craving counterbalanced by control. The Doctor is too impetuous, too spoiled by decades of getting his way. This is the Regrator’s domain. Here, he voices no order, no command, yet Dottore listens all the same.
It is nearly impossible to resist.
Only the violence concealed behind his gimlet eyes belies Pantalone’s own interest, the desire that stirs in the deepest recesses of his person. He could take Dottore right here, he thinks, pinned against the garland-draped column. Were he in a different mood, perhaps he would.
“Idle extortion leads to laxity.” Pantalone’s smiling lips lend richness to his words. Dottore remains rooted as a finger traces the lines that flank his incendiary eyes, scrolling down to stroke a scar upon his throat, a silver mark that shines above his silk jabot. “Some might take advantage.”
Seizing the neckwear, Pantalone tightens it over the slice of Dottore’s collar, a navy noose so taut he’ll sense the strain each time he swallows. He feels the answering gasp like a touch, a brand, the sound sinking into the marrow of his bones.
“Hmm, nothing to say, Doctor? Have I finally succeeded in silencing that sharp tongue of yours?”
Hooking a slender finger in the jabot, Pantalone pulls and Dottore goes, arching into the hold, his face rising, their mouths so close that Dottore can feel the fog of Pantalone’s breath.
An almost-kiss. Their lips brush with the barest touch—so scant, so brief it might have been mere illusion. The moment he’s released, Dottore staggers, slumped against the icy marble, his visage twisted with yearning, too aroused to be appalled by the force of his own want.
Pantalone draws back, having donned his demure diplomat’s mask. Only he can make it appear as though they had merely been engaged in amiable conversation. With businesslike efficiency, he plucks Dottore’s mask from the window ledge and settles it over his scorching eyes.
And then, when he’s pleased with the state of the Doctor’s ensemble, he presses his palm flat to Dottore’s groin and laughs cruelly at the way he ruts up helplessly against it, an intimate collision, his desperate moan bitten off a second too late.
Ah, how easily the Doctor’s cerebral disposition can be overcome. All that detached rationality disappearing at a touch. It’s exalting, this heady rush of power that surges through Pantalone’s veins, delicious and destructive all at once.
“There,” he says, an undercurrent of deep satisfaction in his tone. “You’ll make a wonderous impression on our guests, provided you don’t disgrace yourself. I do expect you to enjoy the rest of the evening. The night is yours, after all.”
With a final glance of his hand to Dottore’s cheek, Pantalone turns away.
Sharp heels click on the marble tiles, gait assured, their sinister snap drowned out by the susurrating crowd. Pantalone thrills at the sensation of Dottore’s unseen gaze upon him, an avarice matched only by his own.
Before him, the banquet unfolds in all its spectacle. Stages and scenes, the backdrop of the Regrator’s schemes—seeking secrets worth their words in gold.
And, if the Ninth’s business occupies him until dawn, well, the Doctor’s anticipation will be all the more exquisite for it.