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Feofan hears the little steps coming closer before a hand knocks on his office door. The knock sounds a little different than you'd expect—much lower on the wooden door, but no less powerful. Instead of the usual two knocks one would be used to, a bunch of knocks are coming in quick succession, and Pantalone already knows who he's dealing with.
"Come in," he replies, giving the grace of looking up from his work as the boy enters his office.
"Lone!"
"Hello to you too, Zandik." Pantalone opens his arms as the blue haired kid runs towards him. 'Eight,' is what the other segments refer to him as. But seeing as he is the only segment who doesn't mind being called by his birth assigned name, Pantalone takes full advantage of this. Just like the boy’s natural affection towards him. Not many have had the privilege to see the life sparkle in Eight’s eyes when he lets himself be overcome with joy. Almost as if he is nothing but an ordinary child. Almost as if he never stares out of his dead, crimson eyes and watches the world turn its back on him. Pantalone knows to cherish the place he holds in each of the segments’ lives.
"What have you done this time, hm? Are you banned from the lab again?"
Eight decidedly shakes his head while clumsily climbing onto Pantalone's lab. He only succeeds with some assistance, due to his left hand being occupied with his favorite red clipboard. Once he's sat comfortably, he slams it onto the table and points at a slightly crumbled paper.
"Omega said my research is useless and it won't get me anywhere." Zandik frowns deeply as he flips up some of the papers to reveal two photographs, showing roughly the same spot of forest floor. He holds them up to Pantalone, who adjusts his glasses to take a better look.
"And this is?"
"I am so close to finding a way to make Aranara visible on camera. You can almost see a shadow here!" Eight taps on one of the pictures. When taking a closer look, Pantalone can indeed make out a dark spot that doesn't seem to come from any surrounding plants.
"I have a theory how they can be visible, and I'm so close, and maybe I can build a camera that can see them too! And I could prove their existence. I know I could, but Omega says it's dumb."
"Does he, now?"
A hand runs through Eight's hair, before grabbing one of the photographs. To his knowledge, there are no records of these 'Aranara' the boy loves so much truly existing. But Pantalone knows better than to underestimate the Doctor—even when he's eight years old and looking his most adorable self.
"So you came to me?" Pantalone smiles lightly, reaching for a cigarette absentmindedly. It’s like second nature to him.
"Yes. You always give Omega mora for experiments. He won't give me any."
Pantalone hums, pretending to think deeply about the boy's words while he puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it with an expensive silver lighter. He sees the frown on Eight’s face, but chooses to ignore it. All of the segments have a disdain for his smoking habits. It’s nothing new.
"Well, I suppose you could request your own funding, no? You can write a formal request, I'm sure."
"A formal request? I can just make one?"
"Why indeed," Pantalone nods, making Eight's stale red eyes widen in wonder.
"I wanna write a formal request, Lone! I can get my own funds and I can finish my project, and I'll show Omega that my research is super important too! I can finally prove that the Aranara are real!"
Another knock on the door interrupts Eight's cheerful celebration; this time it sounds more like the usual 'knock-knock' one would expect. Pantalone smiles fondly at the boy in his lap while calling out for the person to come inside.
"I figured he would run to you again," Omega says as he enters the room. Pantalone looks up at him, watching as Dottore approaches.
"Every doctor needs his efforts appreciated somewhere."
Omega lets out a half amused huff.
"Right. I'm sure his ‘research’ is quite impressive."
"Why, yes, I believe so. You don't agree?" Pantalone challenges, and now Eight also looks up at him. He's holding his clipboard again, clutching it to his chest.
"I'm gonna get my own funding for my experiments!"
Omegas raises a brow under his mask, but says nothing for now.
"Why don't you go and write your formal request? You can come back once you're finished," Pantalone offers with a soft voice, letting the boy back onto the floor. Eight nods eagerly before making a run for the door. Once it falls shut, Pantalone's eyes meet with Omega again.
"Why are you enabling him with this nonsense?" Omega steps closer, putting his hand on Pantalone's shoulder and grabbing the cigarette from his lips. Pantalone ignores this, already being used to Omega’s zero-tolerance-policy, and instead places his own on Omega's waist.
"I adore every single segment of you, Doctor. The youngest one has so much childlike wonder in him. Don't you think he deserves a chance to follow his own direction?"
"If you want to be the one clearing up the failed vivisection attempts from under his bed in the future, sure," Omega replies sarcastically. Pantalone only lets out a deep chuckle, pulling Omega closer.
"What an ambitious young man. You inspire me, Dottore. You cannot pretend to hate him. It must be a complex feeling for you, living together with this child. He could turn out differently than you...if given the chance. Don't you want to give him that?"
Omega stays silent for a moment, but not for long. Pantalone nudges up his mask just slightly, and he doesn't have to say anything more.
Omega leans down, gently connecting his lips with Pantalone's. His other hand reaches for the second shoulder, and before he can blink, he is now sat in Pantalone's lap. He lets out a small huff again, but doesn't resist it. The kisses that follow are deeper—the kind that they could get lost in for hours. Just lips on lips, heads moving against each other in a slow, passionate rhythm. A sight that most of Dottore's segments would sit down to enjoy; in opposition to Sandrone, who has lost her calm at the sight one too many times. It's just hard to keep their hands off one another while some beautiful, dramatic opera is playing. It's the perfect place to make out. The Marionette doesn't seem to share that opinion.
"I don't care if he wants to research the Aranara," Omega mutters between kisses, one hand wandering to Pantalone's well-built chest.
"Naturally. There is little you care about when it comes to the other segments." Pantalone is holding onto his neck, rubbing slow circles into Dottore's skin with his thumb.
"You know me well, Feofan."
"That's why you like me."
Omega goes in for another kiss—now even hungrier than before. He probably meant to say something else about Eight. Something expressing his sympathy for the boy, even if most wouldn't know to interpret his words that way. Omega doesn't express sympathy through affirmative words. He does so either through actions, or a lack thereof. Not stopping Eight from running to Pantalone for every little thing; not destroying his experiments; not shaming him to the ground or his "uselessness." They're all signs that Omega is not indifferent to his child self, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. Things that he would not give any other child grace for.
But Pantalone knows that much. He's never been fooled by Dottore's feigned coldness—not even by the most selfish segment of them all. So when Omega’s hand finds his collar, fingertips playing with the turtleneck and dipping under the fabric ever so often, Pantalone only smiles into the kiss. He knows what Omega wants, and that he’s trying to rile him up, too.
“As much as I truly enjoy your advances, Doctor…” Pantalone lets his hand slide from Omega’s waist to rest on his thigh instead, “I imagine this is not what you came for.”
Omega, a little out of breath, looks almost frustrated at the intervention. He doesn’t like being interrupted—no matter what it is he’s doing.
“I initially came to tell you that my mandatory reports will be delayed this month,” he says with a bitter tone that indicates he doesn’t like being made to talk about business again. Pantalone would also rather bend him over the office desk, but he doesn’t really have the time for that today.
“Oh? And why would that be?”
“An experiment…ate it.”
Pantalone stills for a moment.
“Are you trying your hand at humor, doctor? I’m afraid I must discourage you.”
Omega shakes his head, a scoff leaving his throat.
“I wish. Eighteen was stupid enough to leave one of the experiments roam free in the room with him. You know about my experiments with placing human consciousness in different vessels… A Samachurl apparently got a hold of the papers and ate them.”
Pantalone lets out a small sigh. It’s always an adventure with this man.
“Surely, you’re not hoping to get around the penalty fee for handing in your reports late just because Eighteen messed up.”
“I thought you adore them all,” Omega mocks, making Pantalone chuckle.
“I do. But you should know yourself best, Doctor. You wouldn’t leave the little one with your important documents either, now would you?”
“That is a different story. Eighteen can usually be trusted with his tasks. Well. Unless you are in the room. But I no longer allow that.”
Pantalone has to smile at the comment. It’s true that he’s been forbidden from paying Eighteen company during his important work. Which really is a shame—the boy is always so eager and full of energy. He is fascinating to watch at work. But he lets himself get distracted way too easily by Pantalone.
The day that Omega decided on this new rule for his younger segment was after an incident where Eighteen had been supposed to help care about a wounded Pantalone after yet another assassination attempt. Eighteen had been patching up wounds and putting on band-aids, but he only got more and more flustered as time went on. It was simply too much for him to see Pantalone undressed. He had so little self-control that Omega had ended up sending him out of the room to take care of the painfully obvious boner in his pants. Thinking back to the incident always makes Pantalone smile in amusement. He would lie if he said he doesn’t enjoy Eighteen’s overly eager nature at least a little bit.
“Every segment has its weakness,” Pantalone simply replies, slightly squeezing Omega’s thigh. “You are paying the fee.”
Omega rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He knows from experience that it’s of very little use when it comes to these things.
“You are heartless,” Omega states, leaning closer again.
“As are you, Doctor.”
“Most humans would deny this claim.” Omega’s lips brush over Pantalone’s, just the ghost of a kiss before he’s pulled in and caught in a proper kiss. Pantalone doesn’t bother defending himself. Of course, most humans would deny not having a heart. But most humans also wouldn’t make out with the clones of an insane Scientist. He, however, much enjoys this life.
“If you already deny me that request,” Omega purrs, hooking his finger into Pantalone’s shirt, “will you at least grant me this one?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Pantalone replies; because he loves watching Omega get frustrated with him, and because he’s still hoping that he will somehow find the strength in himself to say no. But, whether he wants to admit it or not—whether either of them want to admit it or not—Dottore is his lover. And he is so hard to say no to.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Regrator,” Omega pushes, one hand sliding around Pantalone’s waist.
“Perhaps you are right,” Pantalone chuckles, cupping Omega’s chin. “But I would be out of my mind to grant your wishes this easily, don’t you agree?”
“You are bluffing.”
“Am I?”
The two men hold eye contact for a moment, the only sound in the room their labored breaths and the ticking of a heavy wall-clock. Omega licks over his lip slowly, sharp teeth flashing ever so slightly. Pantalone’s eyes are fixated on him. He can’t say he doesn’t want this man—as psychotic as he may be. Omega is the most irritating and infuriating of all segments, but that’s precisely what makes the banker so drawn to him. He wants to see Omega breaking apart under his touch. He sadistically wants to see the human leak out through the cracks of this hard shell that Omega has created for himself. A carefully curated mask waiting to be ripped off. So that’s exactly what he does.
Pantalone gets up without warning, pushing Omega off his lap and making him stand. Then, Pantalone pushes him back against the desk, pulling off his mask and slamming their lips together at once. Omega giggles, grins, pulls at Pantalone’s clothing.
“Feofan~” Omega moans into the hungry kiss, greedily tugging on Pantalone’s shirt. He can’t help but be all over Pantalone whenever presented with the chance. Eighteen might be a lot more obvious about this, but Omega knows he is a hypocrite for judging his younger segment for the way he acts so pathetic and desperate around the man.
They’re not lovers, but they’re definitely something. They’re each others’, in a way. Dottore knows himself and all of his segments taken care of by Pantalone. The harbinger treats each and every one of them with respect and dignity. Like a real person. Someone deserving of love. Dottore doesn’t exactly agree with that sentiment, nor does he understand what makes Pantalone so drawn to him, but he recognizes their partnership for what it is. And he is drawn to it in return.
Just as Omega is about to shamelessly unzip Pantalone’s pants, the door bursts open. Omega lets out an irritated hiss when he pulls away, already missing the warm, strong grip that Pantalone had on his body a second ago.
“Can’t you knock?” Omega hisses at Eight, who stares at the two with wide eyes.
“You’re kissing Lone again,” he notes. It’s a simple observation, but Omega rolls his eyes at it.
“Don’t get jealous, now. He spoils you rotten any chance he gets.”
“Do I, now?” Pantalone hums.
“But he doesn’t kiss me like that!”
“Don’t I, now…”
“Stop enjoying this so much,” Omega scoffs, grabbing his mask from the desk and putting it back on.
“Did you finish your request?” Pantalone asks, sitting back on his chair and leaning down slightly when Eight approaches him.
“Yes!” Eight proudly holds out a paper. Pantalone takes it and places it on the desk, adjusting his slightly fogged-up glasses as he reads what is written on it. With a green marker, written in all capitalized, slightly crooked letters, he reads the formal request as follows:
“Pantalone please give me Mora for my Aranara research project.”
When Omega sees the paper, he lets out an amused huff.
“You’re not gonna approve this, are you? You could’ve at least handed him a form to fill out.”
“The forms are only suggestions to make the requesting process easier on both ends. There are no laws against creating a personalized funding request,” Pantalone explains as he opens his drawer.
Eight steps closer to the desk, his eyes going wide and sparkling with joy when he watches a big red “approved” stamp go onto the bottom of the paper. He’s basically vibrating with excitement while Pantalone reaches for his quill pen, tapping it against the rim of the ink holder before signing off the paper.
“I will process your request shortly, and you will receive the funds by the start of the next week.” The paper is handed back to Eight, who is grinning like a child on Christmas morning.
“Thank you, Lone!”
“You welcome, Zandik. Use your funds wisely. I’m looking forward to seeing the results of your research.”
With that, the boy runs back out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Why did you do that?” Omega asks immediately, his tone almost accusatory.
“Because I support my dearest Doctor at any stage in life. And I believe that he can do great things if someone believes in him.”
The answer sounds so simple, but to Omega, it’s only irritating. Something about Pantalone being so soft, so kind, so caring with his younger self… it gets him furious. Or maybe it’s a different feeling? He just knows it makes something in him clench and twist.
“You’re spoiling him. He will start to think he can just do things and impress others with it,” Omega grumbles.
“Right. And maybe if he thinks that, he won’t feel the need to become a god one day. Because who he is as a human is already enough.”
Omega’s throat tightens.
“You—”
“Where were we?” Pantalone gets back up now, caging Omega against the desk. “Or did Zandik ruin your mood?”
Omega scowls, the anger rendering him speechless. Pantalone tilts his head to the side, catching Omega’s lips in a soft kiss underneath the mask.
“I adore any version of you, Doctor. From the least to the most insane. Which is a title you surely hold.”
Omega isn’t done arguing yet, but soft lips sliding against his own disarm him once again. The tension trickles out slowly as he melts into the touches, gives himself fully to the passionate kiss.
“Maybe I’m the jealous one,” Omega mutters quietly, and when he opens his eyes, Pantalone doesn’t look at him with judgement.
“So?” He asks softly, holding onto Omega’s pale cheek.
“So spoil me rotten.”