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Pantalone drowns the yawn in his glass of wine. It leaves a dry and sour taste on his tongue, utterly in conflict with what the bottle’s price tag promised.
At least it does its job, providing numbness to his eardrums that are forced to endure the loud audio. On the stage, the heartbroken wife is lamenting to her loyal maid. One aria ago, she had done the same to her gardener.
Hope her staff list is short, Pantalone silently prays.
He glances at the man seated next to him, the main perpetrator of the torturous night.
Dottore is leaning forward, head inclined to the left. His mask is tilted slightly upwards, exposing lips pressed into a thin line, an expression typically reserved for when the scientist is thoroughly submerged in his research.
“Do you hear it?” The caw arrives hushed from beneath the beak. “Her vibrato is perfectly controlled, just like her breath pacing. What magnificent lungs.”
Pantalone rolls his eyes.
“You say the same about any that aren’t mine.”
“Touché. But there’s more at play here.”
Yes. Like Pantalone’s nerves. This time, he chooses to sigh aloud before sipping on the numbing agent.
Dottore inches towards him, their shoulders pressing together.
“I get the feeling you find the experience dreadful.”
“Perhaps that mask of yours is see-through, after all.”
The Doctor hums in thought.
The woman down the stage hits a soprano and the glasses in the viewers’ hands tremble. Tsaritsa’s tits, the opera really is dangerous to any form of entertainment.
“What about the story?” Dottore chirps. “I thought you were a fan of tragic romances.”
“Yes,” Pantalone admits. “But if you need your viewer to read the story from a printed brochure first before the show even starts to get it, I don’t think you’re doing an impressive job at telling it.”
He sets his empty glass on the tray and pushes against the warm presence beside him.
“Besides, if that woman wants to end her life because her husband returned from overseas with a foreign whore for a new wife, I don’t find that tragic—I find that puerile.” He scoffs. “If I were her…”
Dottore’s skin blooms with goosebumps as Pantalone’s breath caresses his ear.
“… I would spike both of their food with poison and blame their death on their stomachs being incompatible with Inazumian cuisine. Then, as a wealthy widow, I would take my scrumptious maid for a lover.”
Dottore muffles a chuckle against his glove.
“Of course, you would.”
He slowly turns his head and Pantalone feels a faint scratch of the beak against his smooth cheek.
“Remind me to never introduce you to my exotic lovers.”
“Oh, because you have so many of those.”
From the neighboring VIP box comes an annoyed harrumph. The two men ignore it.
The beak nestles against Pantalone’s ear, pushing his glasses up.
“Fine,” Dottore grunts. “I’ll order you something stronger.”
He’s met with a raised eyebrow.
“And?”
The wine and the fact that the singer is about to start her three-hour-long death do wonders for Regrator’s sass.
Thus, surrender is the only valid option for the crow should it want to keep its feral friend placid until the end of the performance.
Dottore exhales.
“And I’ll let you choose the place for our next outing.”
“Marvelous.” Pantalone purrs. “I believe a toast is in order.”
He lifts his ringed fingers and snaps them in the air. Invisible servants materialize, buzz, disappear, and reappear a few moments later.
While the crowd below holds their breath at the madame unsheathing a tantō, above them, two wealthy Harbingers clink their glasses together.
The whiskey pleasantly burns at Pantalone’s gullet. He looks away from the agony playing out under the spotlights and instead studies the handsome, masked face of his partner. Mint and smoke wafts in the air.
One hand moves to curl around the familiar shape of Dottore’s thigh.
He remains a study in indifference.
“Still bored, my dear friend?”
Pantalone knows better than to trust the doctor’s acting. The betrayed wife might have concealed a blade in her kimono, but this man does a terrible job of hiding the one in his pants.
“What if I am?” He coos.
The beak tilts again. Weighs its options.
“We’ve never done it in front of an audience.” He tries.
“Good thing they’re not our audience.”
He fails.
Pantalone relishes the strain of muscles beneath his palm when he slides it higher.
The singer chokes up a gasp; how fitting.
“They will hear us.” Another attempt at logic from Dottore. Weaker this time.
“Over this noise?” Pantalone dismantles it with a scoff. “Unlikely. Alas…” He enjoys the impatient bobble of Dottore’s Adam’s Apple when his breath ghosts over his neck. “… Let’s find out. Shall we?”
Any further protests get swallowed by a crescendo of “ohs”: one coming from a wife bleeding red ribbons on the stage and the other from the man with wet lips shoved against his racing artery.
“Oh, for Archons—!”
The neighboring VIP box announces its “oh” loud and clear.
Shame it too gets swallowed by the performance.
Pantalone grins. His free hand greedily snatches a fistful of blue locks, teeth grazing the flesh he’s about to devour.
Let Sandrone talk, he thinks. How magnanimous of him to provide a colleague with gossip for her tea parties.
Dottore’s gloves come up, trembling, searching for purchase in the other man’s vest. His hips betray him, bucking in rhythm with the orchestra’s overture.
For the first time this evening, Regrator feels excited.
Perhaps dates in the opera aren’t that bad of an idea, after all.