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When entering Pantalone's office, Dottore walked in without so much of a comment, as Pantalone's secretary had long ago become accustomed to his sudden and random arrivals. Like this, Dottore would come to take a seat by the lower couches or by the piano—as there was almost a guaranteed chance that Pantalone would be squandered by a variety of other issues. He would often burrow himself into the background, spending the time mulling through his own affairs as they stayed themselves in silence before finally, Pantalone would address him.
Perhaps this arrangement was backwards for their positions, that Dottore should have taken more offense to being asked, implicitly, to wait; especially since it was with Dottore that there was Pantalone, a small perennial and its gardener.
But, in a room that was lit just so warmly, the windows left atrociously open while the heater protested its excessive luxury, Dottore could not bring himself to dislike his own settlement—not when the aired ventilation failed to discourage the irritatingly familiar smell of smoke, walls hung with a tasteful, or tasteless, group of paintings that he loathed, but admired. No, he understood, the soft cushions of his chair that made it easy to rest against and fall asleep on were just as effective at convincing him to deliberate tolerance while silently at ease. That, he understood, had been a condition that Pantalone carefully ensured when making his office.
Even so, when Dottore opened the door that day, he had not been greeted by the sight of Pantalone combing through each document, nor had he burst into a series of letters being written for some regional manager—no, when Dottore pressed it upon himself to go and meet with the Ninth, he was asleep, head resting on the table, with his arms crossed as though it had any value. Even the length of his usually pristinely managed hair was unfairly spread across pages, pen having been scattered to hang precariously off the edge.
Dottore hadn't once the opportunity to catch the Ninth, who valued appearances so much, in such a state of disarray.
If he peeked over the edge of Pantalone's desk, he was sure he would catch the pages beginning to slowly fall over the side.
And Dottore thought of himself to be of immense luck.
Stepping around, Dottore trailed his hand over the back of Pantalone's armchair, coming to see the side of his face pressed into the desk. One finger was plush against his cheek, endearingly so; it reminded Dottore mildly of a small rat slowly being squeezed as it rather foolishly decided to relax in the comfort of his own gloves. That—he understood—was something Pantalone would be upset as being described by. Even if there was no better description of his haughtiness that arrived from a sense of ease around Dottore.
He wanted to pinch the fat that rested in his small and shallow cheeks, and what harsh words for someone so utterly bemused. Dottore glanced at the small free space of Pantalone's desk and took to himself to take a seat, draping his legs over the handles to a set of drawers as his toes just barely grazed the floor. From this angle, he was able to almost calculate exactly how many more seconds before Pantalone's already-falling glasses would fall.
Dottore thought that he must have held the Ninth in high regard if here he was tracing his sleeping thoughts—the small breathes were too soft and too quiet but the room was just as, enough for someone like Dottore to almost tell his heartbeat from the little puffs. This irrational attention, it weaned from him his time, his thoughts, all until there was nothing else but a singular understanding of proprietary ownership.
He likened his hold over the lithe and unhealthy body as though it were his own invention—to which, at some point it must have been given the numerous surgeries he had pushed Pantalone to.
Afterall, he couldn't bear the idea of there being something defective about his partner. The thought itself was scandalous and would have him scowl and somehow drag him into his office again to check over carefully.
And to some degree, he understood, that it must have been pathological, his desire to be as such, to continue being as such, even as he understood to what degree that he needed and did not need to be thinking of him. To every cell that he could come to wrap his hands around, he would need to diagnose it until it was deemed healthy by standards beyond humanly possible.
Dottore curled a hand round the cheek, index pushing the glasses to last them their spot another few seconds. Other than being slightly boney, he could find no imperfections drawn from Pantalone himself to discuss or argue on. To describe it, Dottore would find himself removing himself from words, as it was something that was lexically impossible to be precise on. He could only find himself compromising on a single description—
—that was that, Pantalone was, in every respect, perfect.
Save for his atrocious habit of smoking.
Dottore scowled as he plucked the ashtray that was already filled with cigarettes and dumped it—the tray and all—into the nearby wastebin.
clunk.
If the sound woke the sleeping one, Dottore would blame Pantalone, for no one told him to pick up such an offensive habit—after going through the agonizing process of finding a specimen healthy enough that he didn’t think of it being an immediate risk to transfer their lungs to Pantalone, the man had the audacity to wake up on the same operating table and ask for a cigarette.
And he could remember him so clearly, reclining and still in a post-operation haze, his hand fishing around before turning to him, the ridiculously snide mind recognizing and grinning as he came to ask for a cigarette.
If he hadn’t just had his chest lying open beneath a blade until it was sewn shut, Dottore was sure he would’ve hauled him back by the length of his hair in his hand and asked how long exactly he wanted to live and if that number was already dropping into the microseconds.
He would have been so close, leaning over as the angle would force Pantalone to open his eyes, so wide that he would see the small aging lines that he had come into by the age of just forty-three.
But at the time, Dottore had only glanced at him with a glare that would have withered a lesser agent into pieces ready to be strung and hung.
Sighing, he threaded Pantalone’s hair, before leaning down to kiss just above his ear, closer to his temple.
He hoped whatever rest he earned from lying at a preposterous angle would pain his neck when waking.
At least that way, Pantalone would come to his office later to complain.