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The train whines to a stop and exhales, releasing a cloud of exhaust into the cold air. Two Harbingers are greeted at the entrance by the conductor and the attendants with deepest sincerity. The Fatui agents that had accompanied them there bid their farewells.
“Lord Harbingers, please follow me,” one of the crew members guides. Dottore and Pantalone step in, their thick coats brushing against the velvet carpet. They walk down a short corridor of compartments until the attendant gestures to doors.
“Very much appreciated,” Pantalone says. “You may leave.”
The attendant nods humbly and hurries off to tend to other matters. Dottore tugs the door and it slides open, the dimly lit room revealing itself to them. It’s luxurious. Curtains are hung loose at the sides of the windows, allowing cloud-filtered sunlight to paint the interior. The seats are a short distance across from each other, and a small table sits between the cushioned seats. To Dottore, it’s just enough room to run an experiment.
Dottore closes the door behind Pantalone. The moment the door clicks shut, the two seem to drop their serious demeanor.
They take a seat across from each other and Dottore is the first to hog the small table between them. The crowd outside of the train gradually gets smaller as their tickets are checked.
Pantalone looks around at the familiar interior. They’ve been here plenty of times— but one thing that catches his attention is a packet of bags. “Will you look at that? They provided you with bags,” he comments, humor in his voice.
“I won’t need them when I have your expensive clothes,” Dottore replies. He opens his suitcase and takes a file of papers to put on the table. Immediately, he gets to writing things down.
“You know how ill you get when you read while in motion,” Pantalone says with disapproval.
“The train won’t move until the rest of the passengers board. That takes twenty minutes at least,” Dottore explains. Pantalone glimpses out the frosted window to see passengers with suitcases and bags getting in line to get their tickets checked.
“I suppose,” the banker replies, watching Dottore analyze his files like he’s got all the time in the world. He honestly hopes Dottore feels nauseous so that he can have his attention all to himself.
Pantalone walks with leisure, gloved fingers running over the cashmere chair. Such fine seats with harmonious designs and yet, of all the seats, the most comfortable one seems to be the doctor’s lap.
Following their usual routine, Pantalone reaches his hands towards Dottore’s chest and unclasps his coat. The second harbinger murmurs an absent-minded “thank you”. Pantalone hangs the coat on a rack, the rich smell of antiseptic lingering on its fur. He removes his own coat as well.
Pantalone stands by the window and watches the pool of people outside shrink, until eventually, the last one steps in. Pantalone bows over the table and presses Dottore’s pen down. A bell chimes outside the train before it jolts forward. Dottore lifts a hand toward Pantalone as though to prevent him from falling over.
This makes Pantalone smile a little. He takes Dottore’s hand as if accepting a dance.
“Sit, won’t you?” Dottore suggests, with masked concern.
“I haven’t been escorted.”
Dottore can’t lie. He’s a little charmed. He stands up and guides the banker backwards, presenting the seat with a courteous motion of the hand. He bows a little as Pantalone descends to his seat.
“Why, thank you,” Pantalone says, their hands departing. Dottore joins the banker’s side.
Pantalone picks up his own suitcase from under the table and takes out files, ready to do his own thing.
Before Dottore can speak, the door slides open. A new attendant greets them, pushing a cart in.
“Is there anything you would like for the first hour of the ride?” the attendant asks.
“Black tea,” Pantalone replies, determining what would best benefit Dottore since he’s not saying anything. “And ginger tea for the doctor,” he adds casually as he flips through pages.
The attendant sets different teapots and two cups on one tray, stepping inside to leave it on the table. The attendant closes the door when they leave.
The scent of ginger tea fills the room. But Dottore isn’t focused on that smell. He’s focused on whatever perfume Pantalone is wearing that he isn’t familiar with. It’s a very minty fragrance.
Pantalone tugs the curtain to introduce some more light for his reading.
“I haven’t smelled that perfume on you,” Dottore notes.
“I bought it a few weeks ago,” Pantalone replies with ease, fixing his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “I read about aromatherapy. I thought it might help with your motion sickness.”
Pantalone feels the beak of Dottore’s mask graze past his hair as indulges in the scent.
“And…you decided a perfume would be the best idea. Not a diffuser of some kind, not perhaps perfume in a napkin— but on yourself?” Dottore questions.
Pantalone plays with a strand of Dottore’s hair. “What better way to have you closer to me?” He lets the coiled hair slip away as he leans in, closing the gap between them.
Dottore is lured like fish to a bait. That is, until Pantalone leans over past the doctor to take his cup of tea. Dottore follows suit to save himself from embarrassment. Pantalone crosses his legs complacently, taking a sip of his earthy black tea.
The doctor watches with hawk-attention, from the way the porcelain cup meets Pantalone’s lips, to the way his fingers curl around the cup like royalty. He finds himself mirroring the banker and taking a sip from his own tea. It’s hot but fresh. He keeps the cup hovering near his lips while obsessively keeping his eyes on the banker.
The banker relishes in the sensation of the doctor’s strong and watchful gaze.
“Do enlighten me with your knowledge of tea,” Dottore begins, to take Pantalone’s attention away from the burdens of finance. “Herbal teas are not caffeinated, are they?”
Pantalone lowers his cup. “That’s correct. Ginger tea isn’t caffeinated. Teas derived from the plant camellia sinensis contain caffeine. In fact, only teas without camellia sinensis can be considered ‘herbal’…,” he goes on.
Dottore listens to his voice like it’s a melody coated with honey. It’s just what his ginger tea seems to lack. What his tongue seems to lack.
Pantalone picks up a spoon to stir his tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain, a rhythmic sound that’s all too hypnotizing with his voice. He looks into his cup, the amber liquid swaying a different direction this time.
Dottore feels his stomach turn.
“I almost feel sorry for you. Are you falling victim to motion sickness already?” Pantalone stops his rambling to ask. He brings Dottore’s head onto his lap, his hand very gentle, but Dottore resists it out of pride.
“Don’t worry. Don’t you think it’s my turn to take care of you? It’s free of cost,” Pantalone offers. He pulls Dottore’s head back on his lap despite the four pillows around them.
“That is not my concern,” Dottore refutes. He won’t lie— he’s melting at this proximity.
“Are you embarrassed?”
“Yes. Yes I am.” His untamed hair sprawls about on Pantalone’s leg.
“Why? I’m just a dear friend looking after you,” Pantalone proceeds to say as he begins running his gloved fingers through Dottore’s hair. He even has the audacity to teasingly run his fingers over his mask, giving the beak a caress. He gives Dottore his usual sweet yet unnerving smile.
Dottore feels his cheeks go hot. Then, he feels Pantalone’s fingers run across his ear and play with his neon-blue vial. What an unpredictable hand. It’s like a curious spider is crawling all around his face. At this point, the ninth harbinger is absentmindedly running his hand through Dottore’s hair while he holds pages in his other.
This feels…quite nice, Dottore thinks to himself. He’s being caressed with the tenderness of warm sunshine from the hands of a “cold man”, as the rumors have it. He closes his eyes and sighs softly. He feels so pampered and loved right now that he’s almost repulsed by it, but it feels much too enrapturing. Too safe.
And he falls asleep right there.
It’s when Dottore nestles his entire face against Pantalone’s waist that the banker notices he’s asleep. His mask stabs him a little. At least he has a valid excuse to take Dottore’s mask off. He manages to get Dottore’s mask off and sets it on the table with their teacups, the compartment dead-silent besides the rumbling of the wheels on tracks.
Pantalone can barely see Dottore’s shut eyes, but he can definitely see undisturbed eyebrows and his long lashes gracing his eyebags. Pantalone props his elbow against the armrest, resting his chin over his hand to admire the other.
There is something so endearing about Dottore letting his guard down around Pantalone. Not only that, but Dottore’s, for once, resting presence is contagious. It’s just too bad that they can’t be in each other’s arms. Pantalone huffs at himself for fantasizing such an idea.
Not long after, Pantalone drifts to sleep as well.
Who knows how long later, there’s nervous knocking at the door, like each knock is a round of Snezhnayan roulette.
The two harbingers jolt awake. The first thing Pantalone sees are beautiful, garnet eyes. It’s like a shot of adrenaline straight into his heart.
Dottore reaches for his mask the moment he sees it, pressing it against his face.
“Come in,” Dottore says, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
The attendant opens the door and carries a tray of tea cakes among sweet breads.
“How long until we arrive at our destination?” Pantalone asks.
“Around an hour, my Lord.”
Pantalone hums. “Thank you.”
“If there is any way we can be of service, let us know.” The attendant steps out and closes the door behind themself, leaving the two harbingers alone once more. They hang in the silence, in the tension, even.
“Why did you let me sleep on you like some pathetic lap dog?” Dottore questions in a manner that doesn’t indicate any sour feelings towards the act, but rather, genuine curiosity.
“That pathetic dog needs to be tamed before it goes vicious…and vomits all over my expensive clothes,” Pantalone replies, picking out a cookie from the small basket. “Besides, you looked terribly exhausted.”
Dottore smiles in amusement. “It doesn’t matter. I’m feeling much better now.”
“Well…now I dread the next hour and a half,” he sighs like he doesn’t want to smother his lips all over him. He picks up his book.
Dottore takes Pantalone’s cup of tea and breathes in the fragrant scent. The tea has gone cold. “So, black tea is caffeinated as it belongs to the camellia sinensis shrub,” he says thoughtfully, recalling Pantalone’s words. “I could stay up for this.”
He looks almost fondly at the memory of black tea that Pantalone’s lips left on the teacup, then kisses it with a light sip. The cold tea runs over his tongue.
Quite frankly, this drives Pantalone insane. “That’s mine.”
Dottore lowers the teacup with a soft smile. “The tea…or me?”
Pantalone grips Dottore’s jaw and wipes his tea-glossed lips with his thumb, and licks it.
“That’s unhygienic; licking your glove.”
Pantalone leans in, and in a quiet, intimidating voice, tells him, “It’s safer than your hazardous mouth.”
A shaky, excited breath leaves Dottore’s throat. He snakes a hand up Pantalone’s forearm and slips a finger under his glove, caressing his skin, to then peel his glove off and reveal his hand. Pantalone presses his lips against the mask with the lightness of a feather, right above where Dottore’s lips are.
Dottore inclines, trapping Pantalone between the window and his body, daring him to go on. Hesitant with where to begin, Pantalone lowers his hand to Dottore’s neck and hooks a finger through the gold ring of his collar, tugging him in so that their breaths mingle.
A pleased purr sounds from the doctor’s throat.
Pantalone takes the other’s mask off, and after a moment of flirting with their eyes, Dottore claims his lips, eliciting a sigh of relief from the banker. Their lips meet and part over and over again, each one growing greedier—clumsier. A soft laugh vibrates in Pantalone’s chest from Dottore’s ambitious yet mess of a kiss.
Pantalone adjusts, giving the Doctor a bit of guidance. Their chests press, rise and lower together, breathless and wanting. Pantalone’s glasses slip, lenses fogging from the heat.
Dottore feels hot all over. He unfastens a few straps, buckles clicking with haste, then tosses his overcoat aside. He gets more comfortable over Pantalone, then tries very hard to calm their pace, as though he’s performing an experiment that requires utmost delicacy.
Pantalone is quick to catch onto this, and his arms melt around Dottore’s neck. They catch their breaths between their now patient kiss, bodies drifting into placidity. Lips are languid over each other like caresses they’d never express into words.
Dottore does indeed “experiment”, his lips wandering towards Pantalone’s jaw. He tries a kiss, and a taste of that minty perfume, then a curious bite. He tries holding Pantalone’s waist close, one arm drawing him closer and the other roaming around his crossed leg.
The banker reacts pretty constructively, and the doctor hums with affirmation, very much taking immense pleasure in those sounds of feedback. Dottore returns to Pantalone’s lips with sweet adoration as though he’d grown addicted to it and returned for more. Pantalone’s hand sets itself at Dottore’s nape, a ring on his glove catching onto the other’s teal hair.
The kiss breaks. Pantalone was right. Dottore’s mouth is absolutely hazardous, because now he’s falling sick with affection.
Pantalone’s head rests against the wall behind him, fixing his glasses in place. “Are you done?” Pantalone says, nonchalant. He holds an intentful gaze at the Doctor with a smile gracing his expression.
Dottore retreats his hands with longing. “It’s not the best place to continue, is it?”
“It may not be the best place, but it’s a place nonetheless. But yes, I must agree.” Pantalone pulls out a long and thin wooden-jaded cigarette holder. He sets the tip alight and exhales, a cloud of smoke curling through the air. It caresses Dottore’s face, who recoils at the stench.
“Did I not give you enough of a dopamine rush?” Dottore mutters. “Or are you just trying to suffocate me in smoke?”
“If I wanted to suffocate you, I’d do so with my own hands.” He pulls his glove back over his hand.
“Hmm. Who am I to complain?”
Pantalone smiles warmly. He looks out the window, the snowy biome accentuating his dark hair. It’s almost like a raven in the snow. He continues to smoke as though they hadn’t just had their hands and mouths all over each other just a second ago.
Before Pantalone can grab his papers to continue with work, Dottore interrupts to say, “Touch those pages and I’ll touch mine just to vomit on you.”
Pantalone draws another deep breath through the pipe and blows it out slowly in calculative thought.
Pantalone places a hand over Dottore’s chest, a light touch almost devoted to his heartbeat, then pushes him down against the cushions, keeping him pinned there to get comfortable between his legs and lay on top. Satisfied with his smoke break, Pantalone sets his pipe aside.
The Doctor embraces him, hands tender on Pantalone’s back like he’s fragile. They hold each other in silence. Pantalone can hear the doctor’s heart beating with ease which, in truth, he is surprised by— but it lulls him.
“You’re very warm, Pantalone,” Dottore observes. “Not cold as you present yourself to be.”
“How funny. I was just thinking about how ironic it is for you to even have a beating heart.”
Dottore makes a piteous sound of disapproval. “Keep talking like that and maybe it’ll stop beating.”
“I merely jest. I’d very much like for your heart to keep its rhythm.”
Dottore replies with a hum. He strokes Pantalone’s back with fondness. Perhaps it’s Pantalone’s warmth that thaws his heart from being ice. He closes his eyes, relishing this depthful moment, softening against the banker’s weight.
The regrator strokes Dottore’s cheek and he falls pliant to his touch, chasing after it when Pantalone stops. He craves that warmth. He then runs his fingers through Pantalone’s hair, very subtly pulling his face closer against his neck. So, the banker grants him this proximity and hides his face in the crook of the doctor’s neck, and the two stay in each other’s comforting embrace.