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He’d thought that, when the realisation hit, it would strike him like a lightning bolt, a forceful blow igniting him with clarity.
Instead, it slips quietly into his consciousness, nestling softly into the recesses of his mind one night as he lies next to Pantalone in bed, watching the rise and fall of his side as he sleeps soundly. The silvery winter moonlight shines in through the window, washing him in a snowy glow, casting the long shadows of his lashes over his cheeks. Dottore stares at the most beautiful man he has ever seen and thinks, I adore you, followed by an involuntary but inevitable, I love you.
The first emotion he feels in response to this revelation is satisfaction. Finally, an answer to a question he had pondered for many years. So he is capable of love.
The second emotion he feels is relief. Thank god. It would be exhausting if he had to resort to pretending to be in love with Pantalone, who would surely eventually see through the charade. There would no doubt be a falling-out, and this entire exercise would have been futile. Fortunately, this dilemma has now been diverted.
The last emotion he feels is a tenderness, so soft in his heart that he’s disgusted by himself. But it also feels good, a sense of elation blooming from his chest, and he, ever the hedonist, lets himself bask in the feeling.
He wants to kiss Pantalone, to shake him awake, to tell him the results of the experiment, to kiss him, feel the soft touch of lips against his own, be reminded that Pantalone loves him in return.
He shuffles close, brings their faces together so that their noses are almost touching. “Pantalone”, he whispers, soundlessly and breathlessly.
He doesn’t kiss him. Doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t pet his hair like his fingers are itching to do, because he knows Pantalone wouldn’t appreciate being woken up.
Instead, he traces Pantalone’s features with his eyes until his eyelids grow heavy, and he falls asleep matching Pantalone’s breaching with his own.
Dottore is sitting on the island counter, knees spread apart as Pantalone fucks him. His arms are wrapped around Pantalone’s shoulders, head flopping backwards as his lover sucks painful bruises over his throat.
He comes so hard that he shouts, clutching wildly at Pantalone and pulling him close. As the strength leaves his body from the force of his orgasm, he slumps onto Pantalone’s shoulders and buries his face into his shirt collar.
“I love you,” he confesses.
Pantalone must hear him, but he doesn’t respond. His hands, previously braced against the kitchen counter, come up to circle Dottore. He’s quiet save for the panting of his breath as he thrusts his hips forward.
Dottore wraps his legs around the other man, squeezing him closer. Usually he would whisper sweet nothings into his lover’s ear until he comes, but today he doesn’t. He rests his head in the crook of Pantalone’s neck, gently stroking his hair as he rocks against him.
He feels rather than hears Pantalone come, feels the straining of muscles and the exhalation of a quiet breath. Pantalone holds onto him tightly, like he’s trying to meld their bodies together, trembling as his body comes down from the high of ecstasy.
After they finish, Pantalone does not let him go. Dottore can feel the other man’s heartbeat against his own. The’ve never embraced each other like this before.
Their first date, five months ago when they first started the experiment, was at the opera. It was not Dottore’s first choice of activity, but he knew it was something Pantalone liked to indulge in, and he also knew, thanks to Svetlana’s intel, that it was one of the cultural exchange activities that Pantalone had participated in with the Liyuean Commerce Secretary.
By the time Pantalone swept up the stone front steps, Dottore was already waiting for him.
“What are those?” the banker eyed the ostentatious bouquet in Dottore’s arms.
“Yours,” said Dottore, depositing the bouquet in Pantalone’s arms.
Pantalone smiled his ever-polite smile. “Am I to carry this throughout the entire opera?”
“I was under the impression it was the proper thing to do, bringing flowers for one’s date.”
“Oh?” Pantalone raised an eyebrow. “Is this a date, then?”
For once, the question threw Dottore off guard. “Yes?” he said, though it came out as more of a question than an answer. “I thought I made my intentions obvious.”
“Well,” Pantalone chuckled, “I thought your experiment had terminated with our… encounter last week.”
“You are incorrect,” said Dottore. “The experiment has not yet yielded a result.”
“And this, then? Is this still part of the experiment?” Pantalone made a vague gesture around them at the opera house.
“It is.”
“…I see,” said Pantalone. He checked his watch. “Well, we had better get inside. I shudder to think what would happen to your experiment if we get shut out of the show.”
He tosses the bouquet at Dottore. “But you’re holding these appalling flowers.”
In hindsight, Dottore should have known then that something was getting lost in translation.
They’re the last two members to leave the boardroom after the harbingers’ meeting. After Eleven shoulders his messenger bag and rushes out the door after the Captain, Dottore closes the boardroom door with a click.
Pantalone is on his feet, shoving the last of his papers in his briefcase. Dottore comes up behind him. One hand snakes around Pantalone’s stomach while the other tips his chin to the side so Dottore can capture his lips in a kiss.
“Couldn’t wait until we were both home?” Pantalone sighs against his lips.
“I only wanted to sneak a kiss.” Dottore gives Pantalone’s mouth another peck.
Pantalone laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Incorrigible.”
“I love you,” says Dottore, resting his chin over Pantalone’s shoulder.
Click. Pantalone snaps his briefcase shut. He turns around to give Dottore a slow, chaste kiss before gently sliding his hands off of him.
Dottore catches his wrist, pulling him forcefully back when he makes for the door.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks. “I said I love you.”
“And I heard you,” says Pantalone. In retaliation at the way Dottore manhandled him, he pulls the scientist toward him by his tie and kisses him hard enough for it to be unpleasant. A moment later, he pushes Dottore back. “I have some paperwork to finish,” he says, lifting his briefcase for show. “You wouldn’t want your funding approval to be delayed, would you? I’ll see you for dinner.”
Dinner that evening is a quiet affair. They talk, but their conversation has no passion. The end of their meal is a great relief, if only so the sound of clinking plates fills the dead air.
After dinner, they have tea. Pantalone takes the seat across from Dottore instead of leaning into his open arms, which stings more than Dottore would ever admit.
“Any interesting developments on your research projects?” the banker asks, pouring out the tea.
“Yes. Ours.”
“…Oh? And what of it?”
“I’ve obtained my results,” says Dottore. “The experiment can come to an end.”
“Mm.” Pantalone pushes one of the teacups forward. He doesn’t pick up his own. Instead, he comes to a stand. “Well, I am glad to have been of assistance. Unfortunately, today has been quite taxing on me, and I must retire early. You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
Dottore follows him up. He reaches for Pantalone’s hand and is coldly rebuked when Pantalone steps backward.
“May I ask you to be so kind to keep your hands to yourself?”
The polite, sanitary way he’s speaking grates on Dottore’s nerves. He steps aggressively into Pantalone’s space, gripping the lapels of the banker’s suit jacket. “What is going on with you? You were making out with me against a boardroom table this morning. Now you won’t even let me touch you.”
“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?” Pantalone hisses. He’s angry. For the first time since Dottore has known the man, he’s truly, genuinely angry. “You’re the one who wants to put this to an end. You know I’m in love with you. Can’t you give me some time to myself to heal?”
“The experiment, I said the experiment can come to an end,” says Dottore. “When did I ever say I wanted us to end?” A thought occurs to him, and this time it really does feel like being struck by a lightning bolt. “Wait. You’ve misunderstood something. What did you think was the experiment?”
“How am I supposed to know,” says Pantalone through grit teeth, “when you won’t tell me anything?”
Dottore loosens his grip. He tries to stroke Pantalone’s face lovingly, but the other man leans away from his touch.
“Sit down,” he says.
Pantalone scoffs. “The hubris of the Second. Giving me orders in my own home.”
“I’m not commanding you as Il Dottore,” says Dottore. “I’m asking you as Zandik.”
Heavy silence hangs in the air between them. After a long moment, Pantalone strides back to his seat. Dottore follows, taking his seat across from him.
“What was the experiment?” Pantalone asks. He’s recovered his calm, detached demeanour, and he twirls the tea in his teacup.
“I wanted to know if I could fall in love.”
A slow sip. “Mmhmm. And what was the outcome?”
“I’ve concluded the affirmative.”
“Right. Because you’re in love with me.”
The words are said so clinically that, in any other situation, Dottore would be impressed. Currently, however, Pantalone’s coldness can only be described as maddening.
“Yes,” says Dottore. “I would have thought you would be exhibiting more joy at this news, considering you are also in love with me.”
Pantalone sets his teacup against the table. “Perhaps I would be, if I believed you.”
Dottore looks at him coolly, and Pantalone returns his stare challengingly.
“Do you think I’m lying?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re simply incorrect. Have you considered you’ve mistaken love for the joy you feel at being fawned over? Or having someone bring you physical pleasure?”
“I,” Dottore speaks in a dangerously quiet tone, “am never incorrect.”
“Hmm,” says Pantalone.
“You’ve come up with an awful lot of excuses when there’s a simple answer available.”
“I just don’t think you’re capable of it,” Pantalone says with a tilt of his head.
“Of love?” Dottore sneers. “If I were anyone but myself, I’d be offended.”
“You’re far too selfish —”
“— flattering comments from someone who professes to love me —”
“— and cruel,” Pantalone continues.
“Signora literally gutted a musician on-stage and kicked him in the stomach,” Dottore deadpans.
Pantalone cocks an eyebrow. “Need I list your crimes?”
They stare at each other, locked in stalemate.
“What would you have me do, then?” asks Dottore. “Hook myself up to a lie detector?”
“Not scientifically accurate, as you’re well aware.”
“I can make one that is.”
Pantalone laughs. “Yes, have you make a lie detector that detects your own lies.”
“I can wear a pacemaker. You can monitor my heart rate whenever I’m around you.”
“Physiological reactions are no indication of love,” says Pantalone. “I’ve fucked too many men I don’t care about.”
Dottore swallows against the acrid taste of jealousy. “Well then, you’re putting me in quite a difficult position. How am I to prove to you that my feelings are true?”
Pantalone’s answer is one that he’s expecting. “You can’t.” His words are blunt and decisive.
Dottore lowers his head. It takes a while for him to force the next words out of his throat. “So this is it, then?” his voice is hoarse to his ears. “We’re over?” He fixates on the fabric of his trousers.
A long stretch of silence passes. Then, there’s the squeaking of leather across from him. A moment later, a gentle finger caresses his chin, tilting his head up. For a split second, he’s staring up at Pantalone’s sad, violet eyes, then his eyes slip closed as the man leans down to give him a soft kiss.
He lets Pantalone push him onto the couch, opening his legs to allow Pantalone room to crawl on top of him. They exchange a long, slow kiss.
“I don’t want this to end,” he confesses after they break apart.
“Me neither,” Pantalone admits, gazing down at Dottore with a sorrowful expression.
“I’ll be good to you,” says Dottore, “I promise. I’ll give you whatever you want. You — you can pretend like we’re still running the experiment —”
“And nurse my broken heart after you lose interest?”
An image of Pantalone sitting alone in his living room, head bowed, sipping tea across from a silent piano, appears in Dottore’s mind. He shakes it clean. “That won’t happen,” he growls, “because I love you.”
Pantalone’s beautiful violet eyes are still so, so sad. “We’ll see,” he says simply.
Nothing changes between them, but at the same time, everything changes. He thought he’d be content with having Pantalone by his side, to continue their relationship as it was. Yet it irritates him when Pantalone gives no acknowledgment to his professions of love, or worse yet, when he smiles like he’s humouring him.
It reminds him of when he was a child, furious beyond belief when people would doubt the honesty of his lies. Now, it only adds to his infuriation because he’s not even lying.
He’ll kiss Pantalone in the mornings, tasting the coffee on his tongue, and tell him that he loves him, only to be met with a fond yet patronising smile.
He’ll open his arms to drape Pantalone with his cloak when the other man is shivering in the snow, and Pantalone will lean into his warmth, and he’ll whisper his adoration into Pantalone’s hair, and Pantalone will say nothing in return.
He entertains, briefly, slipping a slide into his PowerPoint presentation to the Tsaritsa with big block letters saying, I LOVE YOU, PANTALONE, and he thinks even then, all Pantalone would do is smile politely up at him from his seat.
Soon it’s spring, and Dottore told Pantalone for two months that he loves him, and every time he’s met only with emptiness.
They’re in Dottore’s library, doing anything but reading. Dottore’s sweat-slick skin slides against the leather love seat as Pantalone rams in and out of him. His legs are folded up to his shoulders and he watches, transfixed, as Pantalone thrusts against him, eyes unfocused and jaw slack. When Pantalone leans down to kiss him, their hot breaths mingle together, tongues licking sloppily into mouths.
“I love you,” Dottore pants into Pantalone’s mouth, breath hitching as he comes in quick hot spurts. Pantalone swallows his confession as he follows him over the edge.
“I love you,” he says again that night, tracing Pantalone’s nose with the pad of his thumb.
“I love you,” says Pantalone, taking Dottore’s hand and kissing his palm. It’s not an I love you, too.
Pantalone’s scribbling away at his desk when Dottore picks him up to go out to dinner.
“Just a minute,” the banker tells him, not looking up from his work. “I have to finish a letter.”
Dottore pulls up a chair. Instead of sitting across from Pantalone’s desk, he seats himself right next to him so that he can circle his hands around his waist and rest his cheek on his shoulders. He pecks lazy kisses into Pantalone’s shirt, tilting his head at an angle to subtly read what the banker is writing.
A minute passes, then ten.
“Pantalone,” Dottore wines.
“One moment, love,” Pantalone pats him on the cheek.
Groaning, Dottore slides off his chair and onto the ground.
“So dramatic,” says Pantalone, and Dottore can picture him rolling his eyes.
Dottore sits on the ground, leaning against Pantalone’s legs. Five more minutes pass.
“Don’t be naughty,” says Pantalone when Dottore starts to shift.
“You focus on your letter,” says Dottore. “Don’t worry about me”. He rests his hand on Pantalone’s lap. When Pantalone doesn’t react, he slides his hand up, caressing Pantalone’s thigh, coming to a stop right at Pantalone’s crotch. The fabric is loose, but when he feels around for Pantalone’s cock, he feels the beginning of the other man’s arousal.
“I’ll be able to finish this letter faster if you let me concentrate,” says Pantalone, his stern voice contrasting with the way his cock jumps.
“I guess that means you shouldn’t let me distract you,” says Dottore. “It won’t be too hard. I’ll behave.”
The scratching of pen against paper resumes. Dottore settles back against Pantalone’s legs, hands flicking lazily over the tip of Pantalone’s penis. The other man is getting harder. Though the writing never halts, Pantalone’s abs are strained. Curious as to the state of his arousal, Dottore traces the outline of Pantalone’s dick with his finger.
There’s a choked sound above him.
“Zandik…”
“Shh…” says Dottore. “Don’t get distracted.”
“Mmngh…”
“Keep writing,” says Dottore, unbuckling Pantalone’s belt and unzipping his fly. Pantalone’s cock is straining against his briefs. Dottore slides it out from the side, thumbing at the beads of pre-cum that leak endlessly from the tip.
“I thought you said you’d behave.”
“I’ve been told by someone I love dearly that I’m a liar.” Before Pantalone has the chance to respond to the petty comment, Dottore licks a strip up his length, then takes him fully into his mouth. Pantalone exhales sharply, throwing himself reflexively back against his seat.
“Zandik.”
Dottore takes Pantalone as far down his throat as he can, then slides back off. “I’ll only keep going if you keep writing, darling.”
“You’re the worst.” Pantalone picks up the dropped pen. When the sound of writing resumes, Dottore takes him into his mouth again and moves his head up and down. As Pantalone writes, he drops a hand down to Dottore’s head, stroking his fingers through the soft locks.
It doesn’t take long for the hand at the back of Dottore’s head to start trembling. “Zandik,” Pantalone says softly. “Zandik, I — I’m close. Can I please…?”
Dottore nods, granting permission for Pantalone stop writing. Pantalone curls both hands into Dottore’s hair, hips rising up to thrust into Dottore’s mouth.
“I’m going to come,” the words fall from Pantalone’s lips as barely more than a whisper. Dottore hollows his cheeks with one last suck, and Pantalone is spilling into him, back arched and releasing a cry to the ceiling.
Dottore spits into the wastebasket. He rises to his feet. Pantalone slumps against him, resting his head against Dottore’s belly and the beginning of Dottore’s own arousal.
As his partner recovers from the glow of pleasure, Dottore studies the letter on the desk. Pantalone’s actually gotten impressively far. Only the last few lines have gotten shaky, and there’s an ink blot from where the fountain pen pressed too firmly into the page.
He pulls Pantalone’s face up using his tie, leaning down until their lips are torturously close. As Pantalone surges up to meet his lips, he pulls away. They repeat the same song and dance several times until Pantalone is begging for him.
“Do you want to kiss me?” Dottore murmurs into Pantalone’s ear.
“Yes,” Pantalone sobs.
“Then answer me this,” Dottore speaks against Pantalone’s mouth. He balls Pantalone’s letter into his fist. “If he told you he loved you, would you believe him?”
It’s May.
It’s June.
It’s July.
They’re lying in each other’s arms, the grass tickling at their faces. Pantalone is smiling radiantly, enough to rival the hot summer sun that’s currently shining down on them.
“You’re the love of my life,” says Pantalone, eyes sparkling.
I love you, Dottore wants to say, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Instead, he kisses Pantalone with the same tenderness he feels in his chest, softly, slowly, wishing that Pantalone can taste the love he’s pouring out from his soul.
It’s September, and it’s been a year since they began that initial farce with the experiment. They have a lavish anniversary dinner, then spend the night at the opera, then have way too much wine as they make out on Pantalone’s balcony.
“You’re drunk,” says Pantalone, steadying Dottore’s hands as they unbutton his shirt.
“You’re drunk too,” says Dottore. They look at each other for all but one moment before collapsing against each other into giggles. Dottore has never been so happy in his entire life. He sinks to his knees, making quick work of Pantalone’s trousers.
“Here?” asks Pantalone. “Outside?”
“No one will see us,” says Dottore, removing Pantalone’s briefs with a flourish. He closes his eyes and moans pleasurably as he takes Pantalone in his mouth.
“Oh, darling,” Pantalone gasps as he leans against the railing. “Darling, I love you.”
I love you too, thinks Dottore. Not that Pantalone would believe him. The thought brings with it a smothering sadness, just as Pantalone’s hips buckle forward. He gags.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Pantalone smoothes his hair back. “Are you alright?”
“Mm,” Dottore nods. He slides his mouth over Pantalone’s cock again, kneeling obediently as Pantalone fucks into his mouth. The suffocating sadness is still there, however, and he has to pull away again before he chokes.
Pantalone cups his cheek, concern etched over his face. “Are you sure you’re alright? We don’t have to do this.”
“I’m fine,” Dottore mutters, leaning away from Pantalone’s touch. “I’m just… just drunk — let me —” He takes Pantalone in his mouth again and bobs his head up and down, closing his eyes against the crushing feeling in his chest.
“Zandik. Zandik, stop.” Pantalone forces his head back.
Oh, god. There are tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s crying. How humiliating.
Pantalone kneels down so that they’re eye-level. “What’s wrong?” he asks, the kindest Dottore has ever heard him, wiping the tears from Dottore’s cheeks. The delicateness of the gesture sends fresh tears down Dottore’s face.
“You are the cruelest man I have ever met.”
Pantalone only swipes away the new tears. “How so?” he prods gently.
“Our first time together, you told me you loved me, and I believe you. You are generous with your words of affection, you shower me with love and you delight in watching me take it. Yet you would deny me the same pleasure. I confess my love to you and am met with coldness at every turn.”
“Zandik…”
“Why won’t you believe me?” Dottore sobs. “I love you with all my heart I did not think I had.”
“I…”
“I’m selfish. I’m cruel. I’m a monster. I am all these things, but I also feel. I love.” He gives a hysterical laugh. “And now, I suffer.”
Pantalone is crying now too. “Oh, my darling. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He gathers Dottore in his arms, holding him tight against the autumn chill.
“Please believe me,” Dottore begs pathetically.
Pantalone plants a loving kiss into his hair. “I do now.”
Dottore closes his eyes. Pantalone’s embrace is a soothing balm against his breaking heart.
“I apologise for ruining the mood,” he says a long moment later. He sniffles as Pantalone laughs.
“Our first time together, you said you wanted to make love to me,” says his lover. “Are you in the mood to make love to me now?”
Dottore turns his face as Pantalone does the same. Their lips connect, briefly, hesitantly. They come to a rise, and Dottore walks Pantalone back into the bedroom, toeing the balcony door shut behind him.
“I love you,” he whispers, trailing his lips down Pantalone’s neck.
“I know,” Pantalone answers.
“I love you,” he says again, sliding Pantalone’s shirt off his shoulders.
“I know.”
“I love you,” he says as he pushes Pantalone’s trousers off, guiding him backward to step out of them. “I love you,” he says taking off Pantalone’s glasses and watching his eyelashes flutter. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
They sink into the bed, mesmerised in each other’s eyes.
“You have the prettiest eyes,” says Dottore. He unzips his trousers, letting his pants pool at his feet. As he tumbles over his partner again, he takes both their lengths in his palm and strokes them up and down. The pretty eyes in question slide shut in pleasure.
When he makes love to Pantalone, it’s slow and steady, a rocking of hips, a mingling of breath, a connection of souls. Pantalone comes quietly with an arched back and a breathy, “I love you”. Dottore’s own orgasm isn’t earth-shattering, but his arms buckle and curl reflexively against his lover. They hold each other like this for a long time and almost fall asleep, until Dottore has the good sense to get up and clean them up.
Much, much later in the night, he is once again watching Pantalone sleep under the cold light of the moon.
“I love you to the moon and back, Feofan,” he says, and plants the lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose.