Work Text:
Hello, familiar stranger
Throughout his life, Dottore had many opportunities to adapt to various conditions. There was likely no place in all of Teyvat that could still strike his imagination or challenge his body. Over the years, he had endured burns and frostbite, high and low pressure, a lack and an excess of oxygen. He had tested the icy wastelands of Snezhnaya, the blue depths of Fontaine, and the scorching sands of the Sumeru desert. His body had adapted to so many environments that, by now, he could survive even in a barren stone wasteland at the farthest edge of the world.
It was a pity that this experience could not be transmitted in any way.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and touched Pantalone's face, which was hot from the fever heat: it seemed that the latter had been so pampered by the stability of his measured life that the return from Natlan caused him to come down with a high fever in just a week.
"The pills won't take you. You're so stubborn—even in this, you're a pain in the ass." He gently removed a damp towel from Pantalone's forehead. It had been cool a moment ago, but now the shaggy cloth was as hot as if it had been in boiling water.
He grabbed the basin and got up to change the water for the cooler. But Pantalone, who had been lying almost motionless all this time, sobbed and grabbed his sleeve sharply.
"Where are you going?!"
"To change the water." He looked intently at Pantalone's eyes, which seemed shiny and inflamed from the strong intoxication. "If the pill doesn't work by the time I get back, you'll get an injection."
"Please don't go!"
"I'll only be a minute. You're so hot you've boiled all the water; we could easily brew some tea. Shall I make you some, by the way? Increased warm fluid intake is good for you."
Pantalone kept gripping him like a vice, having completely ignored the question.
"Don't go, please!" His eyes were glistening even more. Seemed like he could start crying any minute.
"What's the matter with you?" Dottore did not understand. "I'll be right back!"
"The door is so far away... I don't want to be left alone!" Tears were gathering in the corners of Pantalone's eyes, and Dottore looked at the door, which was only a few steps away from the bed.
"How is it far? Here's one door and then another right behind it."
Pantalone looked at the door in terror and tightened the grip on his sleeve.
"The doors keep moving away, it only looks like they're near!"
Dottore watched tensely as the tears collected in the corners of Pantalone's eyes to the point they started trickling down.
“Keep moving away, you say...” He touched Pantalone's forehead again and bit his lip. If he's starting to get delirious, it's a bad sign. The situation is getting out of control, he needs an injection, preferably an intravenous one, so that it works as quickly as possible. This fever will come to no good.
"Let go." Dottore removed his hand and walked swiftly towards the door. "It's okay, I'll be right back."
"Please don't leave me! They'll crush me into the ground!" Pantalone shouted after him, but Dottore didn't even turn around and walked faster.
There was no time to talk, he had to act.
***
His right temple kept pulsing and throbbing painfully, and his head ached somewhere deep between his eyebrows so much that it was sometimes difficult to keep his eyes open.
Pantalone lay on his back and tried his best to control the furnace inside his body. The flames were too hot—someone had thrown in too much wood. He was trying to breathe in and out to get the heat out of his body as quickly as possible. Somewhere in his nose, something kept whistling, and his breath was getting increasingly hotter.
Let go, keep your eyes peeled. It's okay, I'll be right back, just don't miss the moment when the walls start closing in to crush you into the ground.
He lay there, looking at the walls in panic, and then glanced at the dark door.
"You'll be right back," he repeated and clutched the sheet. "Who's coming back now? The doors can't walk, they can be opened only in one direction."
His eyes were watering, but Pantalone continued to stare at the door. The sight of the smooth dark wood caused a surge of such fear somewhere inside that he wanted to hide under the sheet so that he could see nothing. The wall was constantly moving away somewhere and would abruptly get back in place to start moving away again. And this cycle continued endlessly until he felt nauseous.
"Please, stop it!"
His feet were getting hot, so he finally threw the blanket off the bed, but for some reason, his body only felt hotter. The falling blanket must have raised the level of liquid phlogiston in the room. Pantalone began to wave his hands over his face to help the heat leave his body faster, but his arm muscles ached, and the furnace in his chest burned inexorably stronger and stronger, the oxygen only making it worse.
There were firm footsteps, and the door swung open. Pantalone squeezed into the mattress and soaked right through it, falling several floors down, but some mystical force brought him back to bed again.
"How are you?" the door asked him, and Pantalone jerked again and fell several floors down. But when he got back up and managed to look at the wall again, the door was silent—there was a stranger in dark leisurewear in front of him.
"Who are you?"
"Who I am?" the stranger looked perplexed, and Pantalone stared at his handsome face. His mind was in complete disarray: a strange disquietude was growing inside him as if he had forgotten something vitally important, something that could save him from the collapsing walls and the burning furnace. Perhaps his mind was simply too full of firewood, slowly rolling down into his chest whenever he lifted his head.
Pantalone pulled a pillow out from under him and threw it into the liquid phlogiston to stop the wood from rolling down, but his head hurt even more as soon as he moved his body a little. And for some reason, the pillow remained under his head.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked and focused on the stranger's bright red eyes, the hue of which reminded him of something bloody or of strawberries.
The stranger continued to study him intently and then suddenly laughed.
"Did I say something funny?" Pantalone asked and rose slightly, but a sharp pain in his muscles and head made him fall back.
"Too funny for words," the man replied grimly, putting a basin and some boxes on the bedside table.
Pantalone felt something wet and cool on his forehead as if the ceiling had turned into a giant sponge and, under the weight of the water, began to sink right down on him. At first, he winced at the sudden change in temperature, but his body instantly felt better, and his thoughts cleared.
"Who are you?" he repeated, enjoying the cold sensation on his forehead. "Do we know each other?"
"We do," the stranger replied briefly and opened a small box filled with some glass things. "I'm your... doctor."
"Doctor?" Pantalone squinted to focus on the man's face. There were several scars on his skin, and his teeth seemed oddly sharp—for some reason, Pantalone couldn't shake the feeling that his body knew exactly what those teeth felt like. "You're beautiful. Can I touch your face?"
The red-eyed stranger snorted, taking some small glass bottles out of the box.
"What a lascivious banker, hitting on me even when feverish. I am married, as it happens."
Pantalone looked at the doctor's hands. Indeed, a wedding ring glistened on one of his scarred fingers. The shine of the precious metal made his head throb again, and his eyes began to hurt more.
"Someone's lucky."
The man snorted again.
"You think so? People usually wonder how it could even happen. I'm no piece of cake." He held one of the bottles in his hand for a while as if to warm it, then tore off the metal lid with a light movement. They remained silent as the doctor wiped Pantalone's cubital fossa with some liquid, drew up the contents of the bottle into a syringe, and tightened the thin strap around his shoulder. The arm began to throb unpleasantly from the strap as the doctor felt his skin with his fingers. But fortunately, he quickly found something, pierced the skin confidently, and tore the strap off. Pantalone watched with detachment as the yellowish liquid slowly disappeared into his body. Beautiful, beautiful hands this doctor had, with all those scars and burns. And he himself, in general, was simply gorgeous.
Pantalone tore his gaze away from the syringe and looked at the doctor's face again.
"Whoever you're married to, tell that person to stay out of my sight."
"Why?"
"For some reason, I feel like I'd do anything to make you mine. Even murder." He felt a sharp stabbing pain in his head again and grimaced. "As soon as this headache stops."
The doctor let out a strange laugh, took out a syringe, and pressed cotton wool to the injection site.
"How sweet. By the way, you, pickup master, are also married."
"How?! To whom?" He panicked and looked around the room, but a sharp pain in his eyes made him freeze. "Fuck, that hurt."
The stranger looked at him carefully, then put the used syringe on the bedside table and sighed. He sat in silence for a while, then lay down next to him and put his arm around him.
"You, me... aren't we married?" Pantalone felt his heart skip a few beats. This light embrace seemed so familiar, so warm—as if some lost puzzle piece had finally fallen into place, filling the void. A beautiful hand with scars lay on him as naturally as if there were specially designated places on his body.
"Oh, yes." The doctor moved closer, lifted the damp cloth and touched his forehead with his lips as if studying something. "But don't worry, your husband knows what kind of relationship we have."
"Does your... whoever it is, know?"
The doctor pulled away a little. There was a smile on his handsome face.
"To be honest, I doubt it at this moment."
"Would you like to be my husband?"
The doctor smiled even wider and looked away as if the question had brought some pleasant memories back. He remained quiet for a long time, and Pantalone also lay there in silence, enjoying the comfort of this embrace. Time passed, and with every passing minute, he felt that his headache was receding, and his body aches were ceasing—it seemed the injection had put out his furnace.
Wait, what furnace, what kind of nonsense is this?
He looked into the red eyes, which seemed increasingly familiar with each passing second.
Pleasant features, bright eyes, well-known lips. A scar from an experiment that had not gone according to plan, another scar from the distant past, almost from childhood. A light wrinkle between the eyebrows from constantly pondering complex problems.
Pantalone grabbed the familiar stranger's hand and looked at his rough skin.
Burns from working with the technologies of the past. Lumpy dark spots from acid experiments. Battle scars. Laboratory scars. A wedding ring.
He looked closely at their fingers, so different, yet united by thin, elegant rings. Absolutely identical.
The rings they exchanged a few years ago in Fontaine.
"Zandik?" he said tentatively as the name popped into his mind.
The man took a deep breath.
"Finally, the medicine worked! I was beginning to worry that we were going to have to go through this all over again."
"Have I really forgotten that we're married?" he asked in confusion and looked absently at the door. It would be nice to wash his face with cool water to get rid of this nonsense. Luckily, the bathroom is not far away.
"Honestly, it's a miracle that you could talk at all. I've never seen you with a fever like that before, it's fucking dangerous. You idiot, how have you even caught this shit? Are you really better now?"
"Much better," Pantalone replied, pulling the towel off the forehead and nuzzling into his neck. A strand of light blue hair fell over his face, and he caught the slight smell of metal and chlorine, smells that he always complained about loudly, which were deep down some of his favorite. He ran his nose down his neck, straightened his blue hair, and kissed him lightly near his ear.
What a pleasure it is—knowing they belong to each other and not having to share that happiness with anyone else.
"Good. I’ll get rid of these pills, they do nothing for you. Shall I get you some water? Or maybe you want to eat?"
"Could you make me some tea? As strong as possible, please," he asked, and Dottore nodded.
"Sure." He got up from the bed, but Pantalone grabbed his forearm before he could leave. "Want something else?"
"You."
"Okay, got to go."
"You're so handsome."
Dottore rolled his eyes.
"You said that already."
"I love you so much."
"Yeah, yeah."
"I like your hands."
"Okay, calm down." Dottore leaned over and knocked him lightly on the forehead. "And stop hitting on me: no sex until you get better. Lustful banker, damn you."
He laughed and walked out of the room. Pantalone smiled and got up to wash his face with cool water. It's only a matter of time before Dottore agrees—he just has to be persistent.
After all, that's how they got married.