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A great many concerns weighed in Pulcinella's mind before this monthly Harbinger banquet, a formal meeting with the Tsaritsa where they would all sit down and report. A few of these concerns he hoped that damned Pantalone would alleviate with the help of some much needed funding. Roads to and bordering Nod Krai needed aid as the uptick of the Wild Hunt saw a never-ending list of aid that must be delivered, people to temporarily house, roads that must be repaired or various supplies such as ore and produce would fail to reach Snezhnaya in time. If anything was out of place, and precious “economic programs” missed their targets, somehow Pantalone would find a way to needle him about it, and pin those faults on him with his roundabout rhetoric and weaponized use of logic.
Pulcinella nearly made a great sigh in the middle of those halls leading to the parts of the palace which housed the Fatui’s public offices. He wondered if he should even put up a fight—by Her Majesty, that damned Pantalone used each word like a knife—he wondered if he would even gain any advantage if he refused to participate in any sort of verbal sparring.
Likely not.
He had to make his attempts anyway, or it would be much more difficult to remain civil in front of Her Majesty later on. Pulcinella thought he might as well get it out of his system.
Walking past an expansive room lined with desks and stuffed with records where Pantalone’s subordinates worked and another room that was basically a glorified tax archive, he finally arrived at the Ninth Harbinger’s office, where, when he knocked and then entered (he disliked pulling rank like this on his fellow Harbingers, but with Pantalone it was a must) but found the office utterly empty.
He took a step inside, closing the door behind him and scanned the room. The shelves that lined the walls had no one standing beside them, the lounge set in the middle of the room was empty, same for the desk at the far end behind grand windows that let streams of precious sunlight in. There was nowhere the man could be hidden from his view.
The meeting was not very soon, but it was not quite time yet either, so it was very strange for Pantalone to be absent from his office, not doing a last minute compiling of his financial reports and smoothing over his new economic proposals that earned the Fatui their fortunes (Pulcinella had to, even begrudgingly, give credit where it was due), while creating various opportunities for the common Snezhnayan.
So where was he?
Pulcinella made a mental list of other places he could check—perhaps the Observatory, or the Terrace Gardens, or—
The soft rustling of heavy fabric and the faintest, barest hints of a muffled groan came from somewhere behind him. He turned his head—
He would have missed it if he didn’t angle his line of sight just right and stood in that exact spot, but he noticed a sliver of light coming from the built-in shelf on the wall that was slightly misaligned—a door to a well-hidden room behind the shelves, very slightly ajar.
A safe room.
“Hush, these walls are not completely soundproofed—” Pantalone’s low murmur traveled from that tiny sliver of space, and it was only because Pulcinella had good hearing that he could even pick up the sound.
“I heard the door shut. He’s gone—Argh!”
Pulcinella recognized the other voice, though strained and breathless, as if they were in the middle of a certain, particular kind of activity. It belonged to none other than Il Dottore.
Pantalone clicked his tongue, and more fabric rustled against each other.
Pulcinella rolled his eyes at the exchange as he drew closer to the door.
He should have known.
He could not resist running a hand over his face as he drank in the audacity of his two colleagues. No wonder there was no shortage of rumors with these two, some of them bordering on conspiracy.
One rumor persistently suggested Dottore made elaborate, chimeric creations for the sole purpose of being skinned for Pantalone’s garments. Pantalone did run a luxury fashion house, among other various businesses, as a front for all sorts of less savory dealings.
Perhaps a grain of truth could be found somewhere there.
There was this other rumor, that there was a day where Pantalone was walking around wearing Dottore’s Harbinger cloak, as indicated by the color of the epaulette rope on the shoulder. The first sighting had been during morning, which likely meant they mistook each other’s coat for their own and never noticed.
This apparently went on until late in the afternoon.
The latest one he’d heard spoke of how the two of them attended a show at the theater together one weekday evening, and rumors about how they “appeared close” though it was difficult for those rumors to provide him with details as to how one would describe how it was that they came to such a description, because it informed him of very little.
The pair were always close, this much was evident to every Harbinger who could spare a second to observe them during official functions. As if they were joined at the hip, where Pantalone was, Dottore would not be far.
Close, yes. They demonstrated it now, hiding in such the equivalent of a closet, to engage in a dalliance right before their meeting.
“We might be heard through the accounting office too,” Pantalone hissed.
“Whose idea was this? This is why we s-should have gone to my laboratory—mmph!”
“But I cannot wait anymore. So shut up, and move,” Pantalone's words may have been a little harsh and quite commandeering, but the manner they were spoken was laced with a tone Pulcinella had to replay once in his mind after he heard it to recognize it as genuine affection.
Since when could Regrator ever utilize such a tone? He didn't think he was capable.
The man usually employed some manner of great sarcasm, so great that he did not even need to infuse a sardonic tone to indicate the irony of his words. The more pleasant his words, the more barbs were hidden underneath, this much Pulcinella has learned over the years.
Now this. This was not his business entirely, and he had always believed the rumors, if only because the pair made no secret of their goals regarding gods, but to hear it for himself felt uncanny. He was under the impression Pantalone was not at all capable of such genuine emotion.
For the Doctor, of all people.
That one—Pulcinella was never sure what to make of that one, but suffice to say it was somewhere in the realm of disapproval. The man's work demanded a great wealth of resources, most of which Pantalone funded generously—but some of it they both needed Pulcinella to source. Under such circumstances Pantalone would negotiate down quite parsimonious terms, sometimes needlessly so, as if it were on principle, like Pantalone just wanted to make his life difficult. Pulcinella did manage to get the terms somewhere on the stratum of fairness, after talks that felt like pulling teeth.
Needless to say, having some more knowledge of the pair might turn out favorably for him, so he took the smallest, lightest steps towards that door, so that he might have a peek.
The room was tiny, no more than two people would be able to stand side by side. The walls were lined with vaults and shelves teeming with ledgers, bars of gold were piled on the floor, and jewels spilled from half-opened chests. Right in the center, a little further away from the door and seemingly floating among the riches, was a reclining lounge chair where Dottore sat, almost sprawled onto the furniture and his lap in turn served as Pantalone’s seat.
The pair of them ground at each other’s lower halves in a steady ebbing and flowing rhythm. Pantalone held onto Dottore’s leather harness (how convenient that the Doctor always wore them) and rode the man beneath him hard. In turn, Dottore met those thrusts, teeth gritted together as though it took every bit of effort he had in him to keep up. Despite the pace, the pair of them flowed well in what was obviously an act they had done at least a few times before this. Their breaths came in short, harsh gasps. The small room was without any sort of heat and so was supposedly freezing, but a sheen of sweat could be seen on their faces from the intensity of their pursuit.
What would have been a lascivious display was all hidden from view by those large white Harbinger coats. Dottore’s mask was still in place as well, (sometimes Pulcinella wondered if the man slept with it on as well, as he was never seen without it) and from the angle of his head there was no other view he occupied his sight with than Pantalone’s visage, and Pantalone had his back turned to the door so that the pair of lovers were too thoroughly engrossed in their act, in each other.
“Should—Should have just done it all the way—” Dottore groaned, his hands angled in such a way that they must have been on Pantalone’s hips and the way the ropes of muscles on his arms bulged and strained he must have been holding on for dear life. “I can’t—” he made a low guttural growl.
“You will, because the meeting is in less than an hour,” Pantalone’s delighted, breathless tone held that familiar firmness—the tone that Pantalone used that meant he firmly believed whatever he said would come to pass, that he would get exactly what it was he desired. “And you always make such a mess of us.”
And then and there, it seemed his desire was to enact some manner of vague torment onto Dottore. Pantalone did seem to take twisted pleasure in making people squirm, in wielding power and authority not through physical might but through the use of his words, his influence, and in his orchestrated circumstances.
Pulcinella had been on the receiving end of that nearly every day of his life and so he wondered how a man as astute and intelligent as the Doctor could fall prey to Pantalone’s designs, but even with the mask on, a single glance was all it took to understand the Doctor looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.
It was in the way his mouth—the only visible feature of his face—was twisted into what may be interpreted as a grimace, but Pulcinella rather thought it was an awkward half-grin, steeped in discomfort, but quite positive if he could say so himself.
It was not like he knew the Doctor well, but it was not hard to tell when someone so enjoyed Pantalone’s presence as Pulcinella did not.
“I do—not, uhn—!” Dottore strained in strangled grunts, nearly choking them out as Pantalone seemed intent on making a Doctor-shaped dent into the chair. “And it’s not—as if—this—would make less of a mess.”
“My poor Fontainian sea silk robes would like to disagree,” Pantalone bounced once, earning him a guffaw of legitimate pain from the man beneath him. “They’re ruined, completely.”
Fontainian sea silk. Pulcinella bristled at the memory of Pantalone one-upping him one time by gifting the Tsaritsa a dress made of such a rare and precious material.
“Cease your complaints, I’ve already learned how to bioengineer that fabric to replace it,” Dottore countered between hard breaths, bringing up his hands to frame Pantalone’s. “You will have your new robes soon.”
An indulgent, pleased chortle rumbled in Pantalone’s throat. How different such a sound was when it wasn't being made in mockery.
“Then when I wear it, I hope you learn how to properly undo those buttons,” Pantalone murmured, leaning his head down. “Instead of just pushing them all up and out of the way, to be torn and irreparably stained.”
A displeased huff, and the clinking of belt buckles and the rustle of fabric communicated some manner of hasty undress. Pulcinella still could not see too clearly, and by the Tsaritsa he was glad for it, because the duet of sounds the pair made at the action indicated an escalation of their physical pursuit.
Very briefly, a sense of conflict rose in Pulcinella and he wondered if he should consider his exit. He had seen more than enough to dispel any doubts of what Pantalone and Il Dottore were to each other—clearly lovers, as the warmth between them was genuine enough, but there was a sense that even in the sole company of the other, a barrier still existed between them. Pulcinella wasn’t quite surprised when he saw it for himself, he might describe it as a match made in the abyss.
With that conclusion, to observe any further was simply a blatant breach of privacy of which he had no further excuse for—except perhaps that he was already there, and the pair had not felt any eyes on them anyway, and so he might as well watch until the end.
“N-No. The si-sight of you—in utter disarray—by my feats—make you look far more magnificent—than any garment,” Dottore ground out to the steady rhythm of his hips, his arm between them hammering up and down. He made a growling exhale.
Pantalone gasped and laughed again, another bell of legitimate delight—it was a pleasant sound, and it was almost a pity it didn’t seem as though Pantalone made it often. Certainly not in anyone else’s presence but the Doctor’s.
“Is that—h-how you want me now, if y-you could have your way?” Pantalone threw his long, wavy hair back before he surged forward, covering both his and Dottore’s frame with that expansive white cloak.
“Y-Yes.”
“Describe it then,” Pantalone’s voice trembled, becoming a note higher as he began to rise to climax. “H-How you’ll fuck me.”
“Y-You underneath me, y-your legs on my shoulders—” Dottore groaned.
“Yes—Mmm,” Pantalone urged him, both their breaths coming in hard.
“Folding you nearly in half—as I drive into you—again and again and—ugh! I-I’m close—”
Both men frotted against each other, strained, strangled sounds—Pantalone urging him on in soft, whispering tones, pet names spilling from his lips, while Dottore called out Pantalone’s name in turn.
Pantalone arched his back up, canting his hips to and fro before he leaned forward, his hair curtaining forwards onto Dottore’s chest.
At the same time, Dottore tensed and then went limp, groaning as he rested his head back against the headrest.
The satiation of their desires merited some silence, and it seemed the pair of them busied themselves with the clean up, more fabric rustling, before Pantalone straightened with a sigh.
“Look, you missed a spot,” he breathed, his tone sultry, teasing, bringing a glistening finger up to brandish it in front of Dottore. The mingled evidence of their act.
The corner of Dottore’s mouth lifted into a very amused grin.
“I had it,” he said, lifting up a hand as if to wipe it away with what looked like a square of a silk handkerchief.
But Pantalone moved his hand away from Dottore’s hand and moved it closer to his lips.
Coming to the understanding of what was expected of him, Dottore dropped the soiled handkerchief and leaned his head closer to his lover’s hand, tongue darting forward to lap at the fluids from the tips of Pantalone’s fingers, the spaces between them.
“Now you have it,” Pantalone approved with yet another chuckle before he surged forward and they held between themselves a bruising bout of kisses.
The scent of their coupling—of Pantalone’s intoxicating perfume, masculine musks and acrid bodily scents, seeped their way out of that tiny space and Pulcinella remembered with a sense of urgency that he had to make his way out without making a single sound, or risk having a lengthy explanation of what he was still doing there.
He inched his way to the door on his tipped toes, and on the sections of the hard marble floor lined with carpet.
As he made it to the door, several knocks banged on the door, before it nearly swung open in his face—
“Hey, Pantalone?” Childe’s head poked in from the double doors, he looked around and then down, eyes widening. His mouth opened—
What excellent timing. Pulcinella leapt up to cover Childe’s mouth before his name could leave that young man’s mouth and announce him to the pair hiding away in their secret room and crowded the young man and himself to cross the threshold, before shutting it firmly behind him.
“What the hell—” Childe began as he straightened himself. They both nearly crashed onto a heap in the hallway.
“Be quiet, Childe,” Pulcinella hissed, looking back towards the heavy double doors. Sound would still travel, but hopefully not enough.
“What the—” Childe began again. “Why do you look so damn red?”
Pulcinella straightened his Harbinger’s white cloak, shaking his head as if to forget the entirety of what he just witnessed. If there was anything for him to use against Pantalone among those memories, they might as well surface when he needed them for now—well, for now his body felt far too inappropriately excited.
“It’s nothing,” he answered, as he began to trudge his way to the meeting. “I suggest you don’t go into the office.”
“What? What’s going on?” Childe ran up behind him.
How many times would this young fool utter the word what? Pulcinella felt a headache coming on at how he was going to pull his act together in time for the meeting.
“Did Pantalone run you in circles again, old man?” Childe stood in the middle of the hallway, wide-eyed with confusion.
Pulcinella muttered a half-answer, a sound of affirmation that hopefully sounded like he was just annoyed at whatever it was that went on in that office for the past hour.
Thankfully that was enough for Childe to run after him for further explanation, one Pulcinella would not provide, or divulge to anyone else.
It was fifteen minutes left until the Harbinger’s banquet.