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Dottore is getting ready earlier than his partner today. Usually, Pantalone is the one that gets up first, so fond of completing his needlessly complicated morning routine—working out, showering, styling, the works—all so he can arrive at his office at 7:30, put together as ever, ready to commit himself to hours of agonizing over figures on paper. But today there are some samples sitting in one of his labs that will begin to corrode if Dottore leaves them, and he must be up early to analyze the results.
Despite the moon being only halfway through its journey towards disappearing over the horizon, despite the fact Dottore himself feels the heaviness of his lids, Pantalone is awake—though he watches The Doctor get ready from the comfort of their bed.
He feels greedy eyes studying the expanse of his scarred back, no doubt watching his shoulders flex while Dottore puts on his shirt. He huffs in amusement—the banker is rapacious as ever, though he does not have time to accommodate Pantalone’s desire this morning. Perhaps some other time.
The rest of the routine follows smoothly. Not as concerned with appearances as Pantalone, he is nearly ready to leave in under ten minutes.
He is putting on his boots when he hears the shuffling of feet behind him. There’s no doubt in his mind as to who it is, so Dottore does not stop, does not even turn around to face Pantalone. A body is behind him not long after, pale arms coming to wrap around his waist. As pleasantly warm the man is against him, he knows he cannot give into temptation.
“What,” Dottore huffs, though the words are tinged with softness. Perhaps he really has not blinked away all of his exhaustion after all.
Pantalone merely hums, his face inching ever closer to The Doctor’s. Tousled inky hair, not yet trained to perfection by deft hands, tickles his neck. Pantalone’s warm breath hits the shell of Dottore’s ear, prompting an involuntary shiver from his body. Dottore cannot exactly move free from his grasp—not without hurting or offending the man, anyway—being boxed in from behind and held in place firmly as they both stand in the entryway. His ambusher’s lips finally meet their target—the highest point of his cheek not obscured by his mask—pressing quickly into the soft flesh. A kiss, he dimly registers.
Pantalone retreats quickly, clearly deeming his mission complete. The warmth surrounding his back peels off of him, his waist no longer taken over by lean forearms. And yet, Dottore is still, only just gaining the awareness to turn and watch as Pantalone’s robe swishes in the fleeting moonlight, silhouetting a man who no doubt intends to return to that plush bed. Still, Pantalone turns, the pale flesh of his cheeks just barely visible in the darkness, and Dottore can just barely make out the smile curling on his lips.
Pantalone murmurs, “Good day, Doctor,” before turning away from Dottore completely.
The memory of the kiss still burns his cheek, the warmth lingering even after the one who administered it is long gone, and he has long since left that expansive manor Pantalone calls home. He knows his cheeks are flushed, acutely aware of the heat innocuously encompassing his face. He chooses to blame it on the Snezhnayan winds, the frigid cold that envelops the land. Still, he cannot lie to himself.
Pantalone has never kissed him like that. Such tender touches were deemed too personal, too vulnerable, caring and wrong. Monsters know only how to attack and bite with teeth, claw into their victim’s back and make them scream. Monsters do not touch lightly, wish each other a good day, and retreat with so little teasing, barely taking in the reactions of their victim. Dottore knows they have certainly crossed into a murky area in their relationship—highly unprofessional, physically intimate—but everything was always counted up and returned at the end of the day. Take and give, not a single favor—work related or otherwise—went unpaid. They see past that meaningless veil of reciprocality, skipping right to simple transactions. Their dynamic is comfortable. Logic follows then, that his recent actions must have some sort of motive. For now, he cannot say what… he pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind as he enters the lab, but the ghost of warmth on his cheek remains.
He does not visit Pantalone until the sky has grown dark once more, entering Regrator’s manor through one of the back doors he happens to have a key to. Admittedly, he does not need to be here. They don’t sleep together most nights, and he most certainly does not have anything professional he wishes to discuss. Still, his mind remains focused on the morning’s events, and he is curious if Pantalone will acknowledge his actions.
Shaking the snow off of his boots, he walks through the halls of Regrator’s home—as needlessly overdecorated as the man who owns it. Paintings worth hundreds of thousands of Mora line the walls, entirely unprotected—but gawking at Pantalone’s audacity is not his objective tonight. He is drawn to the melodious tones of a gramophone that play from the dining room. Something Fontainian, he thinks. The true target of his interest must be in that very room as well.
Pantalone does not bother to turn, though Dottore is sure he has heard the steps hitting his chestnut flooring. He continues eating, not stopping even after The Doctor is directly behind him and running his hands along both of Pantalone’s shoulders.
“Greetings, Dottore. Would you like me to call an assistant to prepare you anything?” Pantalone asks, a pleasant lilt to his voice.
Dottore’s hand traces up, up, up Pantalone’s shoulder and lands at the highest point of Pantalone’s neck, coming to touch with that sliver of bare skin Pantalone leaves exposed. He presses down, feeling Pantalone’s pulse—steady as ever—beneath his fingers. Pantalone allows it; there was once a time where he would have not allowed such intimate contact. “There’s no need,” Dottore responds.
“There must be some reason for your arrival,” Pantalone murmurs. “If not food, then business?”
Dottore shakes his head. “Incorrect,” he tuts.
Pantalone hums, chewing on a piece of meat thoughtfully. “...I am not fond of guessing. Tell me,” he demands, as though he has the authority to do such a thing.
Dottore complies. “I was simply seeking out the master of the house’s company,” he admits.
Pantalone chuckles, a pleasant noise that sets Dottore’s heart rate up for a few moments. “Well then, you may take a seat. I am more than willing to indulge you, Dottore.”
Finally removing his hands from Pantalone’s person, Dottore pulls out the ornately carved chair and sits, now facing Pantalone more directly. He glances at Pantalone’s plate, finding that his duck confit is almost finished.
He does not need to prompt Pantalone on what to do next—the man is incredibly fond of talking, especially to an audience that listens as intently as him. Evening eases into night, and the pair of harbingers migrate from the dining room to the lounge, eventually finding themselves back in Pantalone’s bedroom.
Dottore has multiple sets of clothing that lay in a section of Regrator’s sprawling closet. He stays over often enough, and eventually Pantalone had seen it fit to get him sleep wear as Dottore never brings anything himself. He has already changed and fully prepared for bed when he walks out of the bathroom, turning to observe Pantalone, who has long been finished.
Pantalone’s state before going to sleep is so unlike the poise and grace of Regrator the public is so familiar with. Pantalone has dark circles beneath his eyes, of which have carved their way into his face after so many nights working tirelessly, and small wrinkles sit innocently at the corners of his eyes and in between his brows. His hair has been freed from the shackles of product—and yet it remains lustrous, soft to the touch and just the slightest bit curled, the dark strands still framing his face perfectly. He dons a robe to bed, letting the full expanse of his pale neck and a sliver of his chest become visible to the few lucky enough to catch him in this state. Dottore still thinks he is beautiful, though he has never voiced such words aloud.
“You’re staring,” Pantalone remarks, a defensive bite to his words.
“Excellent observation,” Dottore says. “I’m reflecting upon how lucky I am. How many can claim to have seen you in this state? Surely I am one of very few.”
Pantalone does not respond, though he exhales a soft breath through his nose. His attention is focused on taking off his glasses, pulling the silver frames and glittering chain up and over his head. They come to sit delicately on the nightstand next to him, the soft clinking of their contact heard clearly in the quiet room. Dottore similarly sets his mask aside, warm air kissing his forehead for the first time since morning.
Pantalone shifts. Though there is certainly more than enough room for both of them to sleep comfortably in the same bed without ever making contact, the two of them often end up intertwined whether their conscious bodies decide to or not. It seems as though Pantalone has decided to expedite the process tonight, as he hovers over Dottore, kissing his forehead quickly, before settling his face in the crook of Dottore’s neck—Dottore’s thoughts screech to a halt. Kissing his forehead? Pantalone has never done that before, and Dottore is not dreaming quite yet. First the kiss on the cheek this morning, now on the forehead? The possibility that he was simply being sweet because he planned on requesting Dottore’s assistance becomes more and more likely. That would be the most logical explanation, he thinks, as his eyes struggle to stay open. It is best if he stays alert, keeping an eye out for any schemes the banker may be concocting, he thinks as he drifts off to the steady breaths of the man beside him.
He feels the body on top of him shift, after several hours have passed and night has bled away to dawn. It is much too early—any attempt to open his eyes is met with a sting of light, and so he opts to turn over and go back to sleep. A chuckle rings out a short distance from him, and shortly after, he thinks he feels the faintest touch of lips against his exposed temple, though the sensation is so brief he suspects he may have been mistaken. The bed grows colder in Pantalone’s absence.
He tries to keep his mind from becoming too occupied with such foolish questions, but he cannot help it. If he was truly kissed this morning—and given Pantalone seemed more affectionate than usual, it was not a difficult conclusion to come to—then that would mark his third kiss. And still… nothing had come from Pantalone’s actions. The man has not even teased some hint of a plot. Tension does not ease from his stomach, even as he completes what mundane tasks he has assigned himself for the day. Things should be as they always are, routine as usual, but Pantalone’s atypical behavior is becoming quite perturbing. He does not enjoy being on the end of Regrator’s schemes, after all. But perhaps he is moving too quickly. Patience is key… and if the situation remains unchanged, he can make moves of his own.
Dottore finds himself returning to Pantalone’s manor after the day’s tasks are finished once again. It is late—Pantalone is likely in bed by now. He twists the key into the lock before turning the handle and pushing the door open. He is not greeted by the familiar sight of an empty hallway, but by a figure instead. Pantalone, he realizes. The man is not even in his robe, dressed as pristinely as ever, not a single detail out of place.
“Dottore,” he greets, “I figured you would be coming.”
A grin splits his face before Dottore has any power to stop it. “You were… waiting for me?”
“Ah, well, I was doing paperwork.” Pantalone gestures towards a stack of documents placed haphazardly on a side table next to one of his plush armchairs.
Dottore lets the topic go. Perhaps it is best if he does not linger too long at the thought of Pantalone waiting for him—it sends a tidal wave of emotion, desire, through his body. Was it a mere coincidence that Dottore had shown up when he did? That was the more likely option, he reasons. Still, when had Pantalone started doing work in this particular area? He has a strict routine, and yet he is here so late… his mind keeps desperately trying to reach foolish conclusions.
The documents lie forgotten, as Pantalone leads Dottore up the stairs of his mansion. Pantalone takes the closet first, changing into his nightwear rather quickly. When he exits his closet, donning his usual dark robe, he shows a flicker of his irises, eyeing Dottore curiously. Ungloved hands, scarred and calloused, find The Doctor’s waist. Their chests are almost touching, the little space between them charged with electricity.
“Let me help you,” Pantalone murmurs, voice slightly breathy.
Dottore chuckles. “I don’t need help.” It is a weak retort.
The hands at his waist slip away, both of them coming to surround one of Dottore’s gloved hands. Gingerly, adept hands pull off the glove smoothly, revealing the pale skin underneath. Much like Pantalone’s, they are thoroughly marred. Still, Pantalone lifts the hand to his lips and presses a kiss onto his rough knuckles. Dottore feels his ears warm. Another kiss has been bestowed upon him. He cannot quite find the space in his mind to consider what this means for his running hypothesis—not with Pantalone treating him so reverently.
Seemingly not taking notice of Dottore’s contemplation, Pantalone drags The Doctor into his closet. It is inconvenient to have another person there—while the contact is nice, Dottore will admit Pantalone’s “help” is wholly inefficient. At least watching Pantalone struggle with the straps of his harness is amusing.
“I am very fond of your harness, but,” Pantalone huffs, “I cannot imagine how you get this on and off of yourself every day.”
“You're just bad at it,” Dottore remarks, though there is no bite to his words.
Pantalone appears miffed at the statement, but graciously takes his hands away from the mess of leather straps and allows Dottore to remove the gear himself.
Dottore cannot tell how much time has passed, but he does end up finishing the task of clothing himself at some point. The moment the doors are opened, Pantalone rushes to bed, leaving Dottore with no choice but to follow. Arms wrap around his midsection the moment he is under the thick covers, curling close to absorb all of Dottore’s pleasant warmth.
Nestled in the crook of his neck, Pantalone presses yet another kiss into the vulnerable flesh close to him. Regrator is always greedy, Dottore thinks, as his consciousness begins to fade. What must he be planning?
It has been a week since Pantalone had begun showering him in affection, in light, meaningless kisses, and yet Regrator has not shown any sign of cashing in his actions for any sort of favor. It is baffling to him, really. Most of their time together is spent exactly the same as always, but Pantalone is suddenly so fond of him and his body when they are together in private settings. Morning and night seem to be when he is most likely to strike—perhaps because his guard is lowered? Maybe Dottore is not supposed to catch onto Pantalone’s plans at all. A smirk curls at the corners of Dottore’s mouth at the thought—Pantalone could never truly hope to hide something so obvious from him.
But the mystery still remains unsolved. He cannot keep letting this debt accumulate, not when he is so unsure of why Pantalone is acting this way. It would be better to level the score, surely. Perhaps he should return the favor. Pantalone has kissed him… five times, if his memory is accurate. He should move quickly.
In the haze of the next morning, his mind still muddled from sleep, Dottore remembers to press a kiss onto Pantalone’s cheek as he begins to rise from Dottore’s side. He is a bit too lethargic to notice Pantalone’s reaction, but he feels the pleasant vibrations of Pantalone’s hum of acknowledgement through his body in response. He hears Pantalone begin dressing after that, the pleasant sound of steps and fabric rustling lulling him back to slumber. One down.
It has become routine to return to Pantalone’s manor instead of his own quarters after the workday has concluded. Dottore cannot pinpoint exactly when this stopped being the exception, but he chooses not to dwell on it. It is more convenient now, when he has a goal in mind that involves the master of the house. Perhaps he can even repay his debt in full if he is deliberate.
His next kiss comes easily when he finds Pantalone in his office. Doing work this late is atypical of him—well, now that Dottore is here, not much more will be accomplished, for certain. He doesn’t bother knocking, he never does, as he pushes open that heavy door with no particular care. The room he walks into is so generously overdecorated, much like the rest of the house. Meaningless trinkets worth thousands of Mora are strewn along the mahogany shelves, only to be gawked at by guests with enough prestige to enter Regrator’s private office. But Dottore is not interested in that, not interested in the room’s glory as the shimmering objects glisten off of the light of Pantalone’s lamp—no, his attention is captured by the man sitting in the chair at the desk in front of him. He stalks his way next to Pantalone, not sparing a glance for the seat on the other side of the desk. He is not here to talk.
“Hello,” Dottore greets. He lowers his body so his face meets the side of Pantalone’s own—not even bothering to look up at him, he notices with displeasure. Is work really that pressing tonight? In a bid to catch a sliver of attention from the raven-haired man, he presses a kiss into the man’s cheek, his nose brushing with the cold metal of the temples of Pantalone’s glasses. His breath warms the other man’s cheek, and he can tell Pantalone jolts at the sudden closeness. He takes a step back, standing up fully once more, as Pantalone’s head turns towards him.
“Hello,” Pantalone responds, finally. Dottore is unsure if it is simply the lighting, but there appears to be a slight pinkish tinge to his cheeks. His expression is slightly quizzical—Dottore knows he wants to ask, yet he doesn’t.
In the silence, Dottore struggles with what to say. Pantalone is gazing at him so expectantly. “Have you eaten?” He eventually asks.
“Oh, you’re concerned over my diet now, hmm?” Pantalone says, the words teasingly light. He then admits: “I did. I ate dinner here a couple of hours ago.”
“Well, of course it would not be ideal if you hadn’t eaten. As The Doctor, it is only right for me to encourage my fellow harbingers to consume multiple meals a day. It wouldn’t do if you were to keel over due to improper nutrition, now would it?”
A huff. “If you say so.”
Pantalone’s focus returns back to the forms in front of him. Dottore does not feel up to deciphering the contents of the paper, not sparing them a glance as his gaze returns to Pantalone’s face. The man is no doubt calculating something in his head, eyebrows slightly scrunched in rumination.
“You know, getting an adequate amount of sleep is also a significant factor in health,” Dottore drawls. “It’s getting rather late—surely you can save this work for tomorrow? If your doctor demands it.”
Pantalone huffs, but the edges of his mouth curl upwards. He side-eyes Dottore through dark lashes. “If my doctor is so desperate, I suppose I may indulge him. Since he’s so insistent.”
Pantalone’s attempt to demean is skillfully ignored by Dottore. Any… possible annoyance he feels at the jab dissipates a moment later when Pantalone rises from his seat, taking Dottore’s hand into his own. They ease their way towards Pantalone’s bedroom, side by side, hand in hand, and Dottore attempts to direct his thoughts away from the warmth blooming in his chest, the contentment and simple comfort of someone being so satisfied in his company. He gazes at Pantalone instead. His hair still looks flawless, silky and healthily dark as always, so untouched and unbothered by the tribulations of Regrator’s day. Still, his scrutiny reveals subtle imperfections in Regrator’s appearance. His eyeliner has begun to smudge, he notices. The deep, sharp indigo, usually honed to such a perfect point, has faded and worn into something softer. His lips are free of their usual stained pink as well. Though that is no doubt due to the food he ate earlier, it is still pleasant, watching the facade of Regrator peel back, one layer at a time. His eyes catch with Pantalone’s—lilac meeting red—as they reach the door to Pantalone’s bedroom. Pantalone’s gloved hand reaches the carved doorhandle first.
“You’ve been staring,” Pantalone murmurs.
“Naturally. When one is given the opportunity to view Regrator’s magnificence, one should take it, no?” The attempt at flattery is met with a head turned in the other direction—but the reddening of the tips of his ears tells Dottore all he needs to know.
“I am relieved I still look put together,” Pantalone says, his face still the other way. “Today has been… eventful.” Pantalone enters the bathroom, pulling Dottore onto the shimmering marble tile along with him.
Dottore cocks his head. “Is that so? If you need someone to listen to your struggles…”
His offer is politely declined. “It is in the past now. There's no need.” Pantalone efficiently strips his layers, fingers working deftly to undo the abundance of claps and buttons that hold his image together. Dottore averts his eyes when the man begins to strip away his last layers—he musn’t get too distracted. Pantalone steps into the shower and Dottore takes his opportunity to change into nightwear.
The subtle patter of water against porcelain is enough to lull him into a slower rhythm. In the haze of something like sleepiness, Dottore discards his garments in favor of the silky set Pantalone keeps around for him. Fabric rustles around him as he pulls the shirt around himself, buttoning up the sides leisurely. The slacks are pulled on at a similarly slow pace. It is only after the water is cut—evidently Pantalone has finished rinsing out his hair—that Dottore finishes dressing at a slightly more hurried pace.
He pushes open the closet door, his eyes immediately meeting a robed figure who is inspecting himself at one of the mirrors. He applies various creams and serums to his face smoothly, a practiced regimen Dottore has witnessed him complete countless times. His gaze travels elsewhere—up to slick hair, spilling over his shoulders and clinging to his neck like oil. It has not yet dried fully from the shower, but it still has begun to frizz slightly. The mess his hair is when it’s left to its own devices is truly fascinating—and what fascinates Dottore even more is that he’s allowed to see Pantalone like this. The sight never quite fails to lose his interest, no matter how familiar he is with it.
Finally, Pantalone turns to him, choosing to address the man who has been so impolitely staring for the past minute. Dottore stalks closer now, nearing enough to slot his body into Pantalone’s. The luxurious cotton of his robe brushes against his hands, warm and soft and strangely comforting. He draws his gaze up slightly to meet Pantalone’s eyes, finding they are crinkled slightly—in amusement, pleasure, fondness—it makes his face burn. All too aware of how clearly his emotions manifest on his unmasked face, he diverts his eyes once more. Now, they land on the pale field of Pantalone’s neck.
He has always found Pantalone’s neck to be particularly well-built. Slightly thick, yet pale and delicate-seeming. He does quite enjoy driving his sharp teeth into the sensitive flesh, drawing purple blooms all across the delicate surface and the most lovely moans from the body beneath him. What a shame he chooses to hide such a beautiful feature—often along with Dottore’s handiwork—behind those turtlenecks he is so fond of. Still, he is not quite intent on marring any of Pantalone’s body. Not tonight. No, he has a different intention.
He feels a breath shudder through the other man’s body as Dottore’s head nears its target. He revels in the tension that dwells within the body next to him, like a wire pulled taut, and revels more in the shiver of surprise when his lips come to meet against the sensitive pale skin instead of teeth. Three. He is almost there. Pantalone exhales lightly through his mouth in amusement. But Dottore is not done. He has already decided his next target, his head traveling lower now to come flush with the skin near Pantalone’s sternum.
Not many would be able to guess it, given it is always hidden under layers of thick, heavy fabric, but Pantalone is pleasantly built. While his job does not require frequent physical labor, he attempts to stay fit at all times. Dottore has made an effort to properly appreciate his work, running his tongue along the planes of muscle frequently, but with so much of the skin still obscured by Pantalone’s robe, that is not quite an option currently. Instead, his lips brush against the innermost part of his left pectoral. Four.
“You’re rather fond of me tonight, hmm?” Pantalone’s voice rings warm in his ears, though the syllables linger with suspicion. Still, he does not accuse. Not yet, it seems.
Dottore’s posture straightens, meeting Pantalone’s face. Pale irises, obscured by lazily narrowed lids and thick lashes, stare into sanguine ones.“How could I not be? You are rather enticing, you know.”
Pantalone chuckles, the breath warm and soft against Dottore’s cheek.“So I’ve been told.”
Their embrace lasts for longer than perhaps necessary, but the feeling of Pantalone’s hands along his back is pleasant. Silence between them is not common—if one is not talking, the other often is. But both of them are tired, it seems. Perhaps the quiet is nice, as much as he enjoys hearing Pantalone speak. Pleasant warmth seeps over him, his attention honing in on the warmth of Pantalone against him, the realization that Regrator is perhaps the only creature that will ever willingly keep him so close dawning on him. Unfortunately, even Regrator’s attention must waver eventually. Eyes flick towards a clock on the wall behind him, and he is ever-so-gently pushed away by elegant hands.
“It is getting late…” Pantalone murmurs. He turns towards the door out of the bathroom, not bothering to spare another glance in Dottore’s direction. Not that it’s needed—Dottore is hot on his heels regardless.
They climb into opposite sides of the bed as though they will not inevitably end up intertwined in the middle in mere minutes. Though Dottore has already begun positioning himself under the covers, Pantalone sits against the bedframe, untangling the delicate chain of his glasses from his hair. A spark of inspiration strikes, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place neatly. Perhaps he will have his debt cleared tonight. He quickly abandons settling in to sit up and face Pantalone.
His hands come to still Pantalone’s wrists, right as the other man finishes lifting the chain off and out of the way. Pleasantly, Pantalone does not fight back against his grip. His eyes are full of questions, flickering back and forth hesitantly as though assessing the situation. Dottore does not give him any more time to consider what he might be doing, pulling Pantalone’s wrists down until they rest softly on the bed before letting go of them entirely. Pantalone makes no attempt to raise them. Dottore hums his approval.
He sets his attention on the silver-framed glasses Pantalone dons. He grasps the metal temples gently and slowly pulls them off of the banker’s face.
It is impressive how much that simple piece adds to his appearance, truly. Without them, he looks innocent. Younger, more naive. His face—though still carved in a sturdy jawline and sharp features—is softened without the cold silver cutting right under his eyes. It is all the more amusing knowing that this man, who currently looks so softened and harmless, has the authority to plunge livelihoods to ruin with his signature alone. He quite adores the sight.
Ah. He is getting distracted again. Pantalone is no doubt trying to discern his motives, his eyes scrunching in an attempt to make out shapes in the blur he is undeniably witnessing at the moment. He has always had downright egregious vision—yet another thing so few know about Regrator. He reels in the chuckle of amusement at the sight in front of him. Pantalone is still perplexed; best not to keep him waiting.
He presses a swift kiss onto the tip of Pantalone’s nose. Five. He has repaid his debt. Without waiting to watch the man’s reaction, he places Pantalone’s glasses on the nightstand to his right. When he looks back at Pantalone, the man is staring at him, eyes widened and lips slightly parted. His expression dampens not a moment after he and Dottore make eye contact. An all-too–familiar smile presents itself.
“This is the fifth time in the past twenty-four hours you’ve kissed me so tenderly, Dottore. Do you want something?” Pantalone’s voice is low, but amusement colors his words.
Pantalone does not understand his motivation? How odd. It was rather straightforward.
He supposes he should be honest. “I was merely repaying my debt to you,” he says.
Pantalone raises an eyebrow, no doubt scouring his memory for any sort of debt Dottore may have accrued to him. He does not seem to reach a conclusion. “Pardon?”
Dottore explains, “You gave me five kisses in the past week. I gave you five today in return. I wouldn’t want to be in your debt, after all.”
Recognition dawns in Pantalone’s eyes. In the low lighting, Dottore almost thinks he is able to make out a hint of flush to his cheeks as well. “Ah…I see,” he utters simply. “I did not have any plans to make you do anything in exchange for my affection. They were… foolish whims of mine,” he admits.
How odd. Though Pantalone has admitted it, Dottore finds it incredibly hard to believe. A mere whim…
Dottore frowns. “Well, we’re even now.”
Pantalone chuckles, seemingly over his previous embarrassment. Now, he presses a kiss to Dottore’s nose, excruciatingly slow and tender. Ah. It seems he is in debt again.