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“oh, dear, you truly have little knowledge in the art of wine tasting.”
dottore scoffs. they are in pantalone’s study, one corridor down from the hall they had all gathered in earlier with the rest of the harbingers— trivial things, as usual, discussions of diplomatic policies and talk of future endeavours. personally, the doctor finds it all very unnecessary. he does not care much for the talking, only the action.
it’s why he finds irony in the fact that he’s been spending an awful lot of time with the regrator recently, despite the banker’s endless speeches about things that they no doubt viewed themself as superior for. pantalone seems to think themself a god, and dottore is hellbent on bringing down the divine. with every meeting, he knows that they are treading down the line of destruction, and yet, it gets harder to shy away from the thrill of it.
not when pantalone is lounging before him on the luxury of expensive furniture, wineglass in hand. the ninth has brought out a bottle from their excessive stash of alcohol this evening, and shared it with him— it’s the only reason he’s tolerating the sound of their voice, is what he tells himself.
dottore can’t get drunk, not technically , but the pleasant buzz allows him to think less about how to belong in his own body and focus more on the other, draped over the fine broacades and plush cushions like a pleased cat, his own little piece of ruin. he can’t tell if it’s a relief or a further detriment to him. his mask is discarded on the coffee table alongside their rings and gloves, a silent agreement to be civil to each other tonight, at least.
they continue to talk, undeterred by dottore’s silence. “you’re not sampling it correctly, you know, it's full flavour won't be enjoyed that way. you don’t gulp it like that. it nearly pains me to see you desecrating such fine wine—”
“i’ll drink it however the fuck i want, thank you,” he hisses in irritation. “enough with your irksome speeches, regrator.”
pantalone coos in amusement, and dottore has to tear his eyes away and ignore the way their shirt clings to their collarbones in a way that’s practically obscene . “you lack a dreadful sense of appreciation for the finer things in life, doctor. how do you live like that, i wonder?”
they sip from the glass cradled in their dominant hand once more, lick up the droplets that spill deliberately onto the plush of their lips. pantalone smiles wordlessly as the red of dottore’s gaze follows the sweep of their tongue, and continues to recline on the couch with all the arrogance of a self-assured victory.
the doctor’s voice is raspy and a beat too late to be natural. “i can appreciate it well enough already, though your concern is duly noted.” he lifts the expensive crystal chalice once more, tipping his head back harshly to swallow the remnants in one gulp. it scorches as it slides down his throat, only serving to fuel the tentative burn within the boundaries of his ribcage.
somehow, pantalone doesn’t look the slightest bit bothered at the waste of such precious liquor— though it’s likely that the price is hardly an issue. rather, they watch dottore like they have him exactly where they want him, another one of their grand schemes unfolding precisely how they’ve planned.
“look what you’ve done,” they chide airily, not bothering to fake sincerity. “it’s such a waste. i’m beginning to lose hope in you completely.”
still, they continue to smile, swirling their own wine idly without a singular concern.
“ tch .” dottore tries to sound flippant, and nearly succeeds. “wine etiquette isn’t something i was trained in, nor does it hold any interest to me.”
“oh? but i could make it interesting, if that’s the case,” pantalone’s voice drops low, saccharine, and it skitters over dottore’s spine, eating at his resistance like rot to the corpses he’s dealt death with. “i could teach you all about it.”
with every fresh syllable, they lean closer, words like a melody on their tongue.
“ doesn’t that sound fun , dottore ?”
“this is why i have a problem with egotistical, pretentious bastards like you,” dottore replies. “you can play at being a god, but for all you preach about benevolence, you’ve already been guaranteed a ticket to hell. aren’t you disappointed?”
pantalone’s fingers close around his collar. “about as disappointed as you are, darling,” they chuckle, coy smile going wicked at the edges. their laugh sounds more like a purr.
then they raise their glass to take in a mouthful of wine. they do not swallow it this time, no— instead, they drag dottore forward like a deity demanding tribute, and tip their head down to press their mouth to the other's.
instinctively, dottore parts his lips, and allows the liquor to trickle into his mouth. it bites at his tongue, sharp and bitter, and dottore thinks that he will remember this particular taste for the rest of his life, embedded in his memory databases like a well-kept treasure.
he drags his hand through ebony hair, and when he winds the strands around his fingers and tugs , he is rewarded with a soft groan from the other, the sound shuddering into his mouth and up his spine. it’s instinctive and the most honest thing he’s heard from them this evening, only serving to stir the embers roiling in the pit of his stomach.
in response, pantalone forces the rest of the wine down his throat, and dottore splutters in shock as it burns on its way down, electing instead to drag the points of his canines against their tongue and biting down until he tastes blood.
“you have no sense of propriety, do you, regrator?” he murmurs, when the other pulls away and he can breathe through the haze clouding the front of his mind. he tastes metal in his mouth, and shivers in delight at the knowledge that it is not his.
pantalone arches a brow, and for all the effort of their carefully put-together facade, they can’t hide the way their breathing is a little more irregular, a little less controlled. for just the barest moment, when they tilt their head, dottore swears he sees their eyes open for a moment, something chilling in the way they sear through him that would likely carve his soul out if he were human enough to possess one.
“i don’t dabble often in vices, doctor.”
their trysts are often like this— one spark away from a blazing inferno, and pantalone has always been the sort to watch with delight as the flames get higher.
“but believe me,” they continue, adjusting the glasses on their nose that have been knocked askew, “when i choose to indulge, i do so shamelessly .”
it’s like a match has been lit against dottore’s skin, effortlessly weaving destruction through his limbs and leaving him to lie in the ashes of something that mocks affection. and now, he’s not sure if the listless heat incinerating him from the inside out had really been the alcohol— maybe it had been pantalone all along.
“don’t mistake this for love, regrator,” he tells them, though he already knows there’s no need for the reminder. they smile at him until he’s genuinely unnerved, lilt burning as smooth and dangerous as lava.
“love and admiration– its less extreme counterpart– are on the same side of the coin called worship,” pantalone tuts, hair still slightly messy from earlier. “one or the other, i don’t quite care to discern which you hold for me, but neither of us can deny the existence of it.”
then they’re closing in once more, too close, the sharp bite of rich liquor melting into drowsy golden undertones on dottore’s tongue— alongside the familiar taste of the other that he’s long grown used to, hungry kisses in shadowed offices and the glint of equally ravenous eyes the proof of their sin.
he feels terribly vulnerable. this is a strange sort of sacrilege, to be sharing wine like this within the palace of her majesty— but the doctor has always been a heretic, after all. he can learn to blaspheme in more ways than one.
pantalone’s smile slants predatory, avaricious, and they only allow him half a heartbeat before they’ve closed the gap between them once more.
“now quiet down, doctor, and offer me your devotion.”
dottore has to admit he’s right— the wine tastes much better enjoyed like this, anyway.
-end-