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Dottore hated balls.
In the last decade, Dottore's patience for such pointless social gatherings had worn away to mere dust. His experiments were reaching a crucial stage and they needed his attention more than other people.
He'd debated on sending one of the Segments in his stead. Thirty-Five would have been perfect, with Twenty-Five as a decent second option. They would have enjoyed themselves more.
Were it not for a certain Harbinger, Dottore would not even be here right now.
He strode briskly through the richly furnished halls of Zapolyarny palace. He wore his usual colors of white, blue and black–the gold buttons and accents shining like sunspots in the light.
Dottore stopped before a large mirror on the wall for one final glance at himself to ensure everything was in order. He took a moment to straighten his gloves and smooth his pale blue hair–making sure the long strand along the left side of his face was curled perfectly. Satisfied, Dottore continued until he rounded a corner to stand in the entrance to the enormous palace ballroom.
The light from the chandelier above cast a bright glow over the space, making the gilded buttresses and pillars shine. Musicians played on a raised dais while couples danced. Noble ladies in elegant dresses glided about, along with nobleman in pressed, tailored uniforms. Dancers twirled over the polished dance floor while small groups stood between the golden pillars chatting, laughing, or drinking champagne delivered by servants.
Above all sat the Tsaritsa on a polished silver chair–looking over the merriment with an unreadable expression. As cold, unapproachable, and beautiful as the North Star in midwinter. To her right stood Pulcinella leaning slightly on his cane–and to her left was Pierro, the "Jester" in all white.
Dottore did not wait for the chamberlain to announce his arrival. He entered with one hand behind his back and gave a deferential bow to the Tsaritsa above–more out of obligation than any genuine reverence towards the Archon.
No sooner had he made his presence known when he felt the mood shift. Everyone gave Dottore a wide berth as he made his way through the crowd. The looks he got ranged from anxious, fearful, to outright disgust and hostility. As if he were a spider that had managed to slip in through a crack in the window.
"That's him! The Doctor!"
"What is he doing here?"
"I hear that all the captured spies and criminals are turned over to him as test subjects!"
"What is he wearing?"
"Don't look at him too long, or you may be the next one he cuts open!"
Whispers swirled around Dottore like a flock of anxious birds, but it was nothing he hadn't heard before as he continued walking with his head held high.
The Knave could mold orphans into perfect soldiers for the Fatui. Sandrone could order a subordinate's tongue cut out for daring to question her. Yet, he was feared more because he was unapologetic in his deeds. Unlike some of the other Harbingers, he never tried to downplay his actions or soften them for the sake of others.
As for the comments on his outfit… He had purposefully gone with a more Sumerian style and cut for his clothing rather than any of the current fashion of the Snezhneyan elite. Zandik refused to hide who he was. Though Sumeru had rejected him, he would not do the same. To deny Sumeru would be to reject himself, after all. It was not lost on him that even in this frozen hell called Snezhneya, he was still an outcast by the majority of its people for the simple fact that he was a foreigner–in addition to his other "quirks".
"You recoil from me," Dottore thought with a sneer. "Yet it is because of my work that Snezhneya has advanced so far ahead of the other nations. You love to make grand speeches about ethics while wearing silk and drinking champagne in the Tsaritsa's palace that was built from the blood and sweat of others."
None of these fools concerned him, not even the Tsarista. He was not here for them.
Dottore followed the scent of cigarette smoke to the upper level and along the western wall. He wrinkled his nose at the stench, so strong that he could almost taste it. He followed it until he came within sight of a group of men, and among them stood the Ninth Harbinger.
Pantalone was dressed in his usual all black, accented with silver and purple. He was currently deep in conversation with one of the other men, a half-used cigarette in his left hand.
He turned so that his face was in full profile and Dottore stopped in his tracks.
The Ninth Harbinger's dark hair shone like obsidian in the light. A stray, wavy lock fell gracefully over his left eye–framed by full, dark lashes. Dottore's eyes traced the highlights of Pantalone's cheekbones. Over the refined nose, the smooth line of his jaw, and the shape of his lips as he plastered on a charming smile in response to a comment from another man.
The Ninth Harbinger was attractive. That was an objective fact. Yet, something about the way the light fell on him… How it dusted over his pale skin to give it a slightly golden hue. How his outfit perfectly framed his slim form–the silver accents glittering like stars. It made him look different, almost ethereal.
Zandik felt… Something inside of him at the sight. An unusual warmth, followed by a tightness in his chest and stomach. A familiar feeling, one that unsettled him slightly.
"It's just a physiological reaction," He told himself. "Feofan is objectively attractive and we have sexual intercourse quite frequently. Naturally, my body reacts as such."
Although the feeling wasn't sexual, despite the similarities to arousal. "Don't think about it," Dottore thought forcefully.
It was just a natural reaction. Nothing else.
The Ninth Harbinger's gaze turned towards Dottore, and he felt his pulse quicken when their eyes met. Pantalone's eyes were like polished amethysts–like the violet irises that bloomed near the riverbeds in the forests of Sumeru. Dottore saw a spark of recognition in those eyes, along with the slight twitch of his lips that was almost a smile.
"Excuse me, gentleman," Pantalone said in his smooth, cool voice. "We shall have to discuss this at a different time. I have another appointment that requires my attention."
The other men gave Dottore unfriendly looks before drifting away. Pantalone extinguished his cigarette in a crystal ashtray before he approached the Second Harbinger.
"You came," Pantalone said with a pleased smile. "I was beginning to think you had rejected my invitation."
"I don't intend to stay long," Dottore said, trying not to think about how the Regrator's smile made his heart rate increase. "I get the distinct feeling I am not welcome here."
"It's a good thing you have found someone who enjoys your company. Come, walk with me for a bit," Pantalone said, inclining his head towards the stairs.
Dottore fell into easy step next to the Harbinger. This drew even more confused glances and whispers. The Regrator working closely with someone like the Doctor? What was he thinking? Dottore felt a sliver of satisfaction at the discomfort. Let them whisper, let them stare. The two of them were probably the most interesting thing these people had seen tonight.
"How have you been keeping?" Dottore asked Pantalone.
"Very well. Though, I shall probably keep better once you finish that Elixir," Pantalone's expression hadn't changed, but Dottore could see the flash of eagerness in the younger man's eyes.
"It is very very close to being completed," Dottore said as they descended the marble stairs. "But I will require more funding to replenish my supply of reagents."
"You know that you must submit the paperwork before the end of the quarter," Pantalone answered without missing a beat. Dottore could hear the undercurrent of exasperation beneath his pleasant tone. "And it will require your signature. Not that of your Segments."
"Please, they're all "me". I doubt their signature will be different."
"Trust me, it will," Pantalone replied as they reached the lower floor. "I wouldn't be as successful a banker if I couldn't make out minor discrepancies on a contract signature."
It unsettled him that Pantalone already knew him well enough to distinguish his signature from his Segments. Another part of him felt an odd sense of reassurance that there was another person who actually bothered to learn these small details about him.
They reached the ground floor just as musicians finished their song. The ballroom rang with applause while the musicians bowed. Both men paid little heed to this as they stopped next to one of the gilded columns.
"Either way, I look forward to being the first test subject," Pantalone said confidently.
"Who said you would be the first?" Dottore challenged.
"Because I know that you won't test anything on yourself unless you know it won't cause irreparable harm to you," Pantalone answered with ease while the musicians prepped for the next song. "Say that you drink it and you end up living forever… Only, you remain a grumpy old man?"
Dottore shook his head is exasperation. "I only just turned fifty. Although that is probably ancient to someone like you."
Pantalone chuckled–the rich sound making warmth pool inside of Dottore.
"If it makes you feel better, I think you are aging rather gracefully," Pantalone said in a tone that was reminiscent of warm, mulled wine.
Dottore looked up at the Regrator, surprised to see what appeared to be genuine fondness in that violet gaze. His chest tightened, pulse quickening so much that he could feel his blood rushing through his body.
There was no way it was real. Although…
Pantalone turned away, and Dottore let out a slow breath of relief. It had just been his imagination. Nothing more.
The next song began–a waltz with a rich, elegant melody that swelled within the ballroom. For a moment, they were silent as they watched the dancers glide over the floor like swans in a forest lake.
"Since you intend on going home, this may be my only chance…" Pantalone said musingly, turning back to the Second Harbinger. He gave Dottore a courtly bow.
"How about a dance?" He asked, right hand extended in offering.
The request was so unexpected that it rendered Dottore temporarily speechless for the first time that night.
"Seriously?" He said, once he got over his initial surprise.
"Seriously," Pantalone repeated, firmly.
"And… If I refuse?"
"Then I will have no choice but to leave this operetta and go home," His smile and expression were still pleasant, but Dottore heard the demand in his tone.
He looked down at the offered hand. The Regrator's right hand only had one ring on the ring finger. The silver gleamed like starlight against the black silk, and though Dottore's pride urged him to refuse–The pleasant warmth pervading his body in response to the other man's presence was too much to resist.
"Fine," Dottore sighed, taking Pantalone's hand. "One dance."
Pantalone's violet eyes flashed in triumph, his smile almost insufferably smug as his slender fingers wrapped around Dottore's hand.
"I hope you don't mind if I lead this one," Pantalone said, smoothly leading them onto the dance floor.
The Regrator was much younger than the Doctor, but half a head taller. His pride bristled at the realization when they got into position. Yet, that vanished when Pantalone delicately placed his left hand on Dottore's waist. He couldn't deny the pleasant tingle that went through his body in response to the contact. They were so close that Dottore could smell the Regrator's cologne. Musk, bergamot, and lavender–mixed with the faint hint of cigarette smoke from earlier.
"I'll follow along for now," Dottore said as they began to dance.
Pantalone chuckled, the sound rippling pleasantly through Dottore's brain. "You complain and grumble, but you still came at my invitation. You even indulge me with a dance," He noted as they moved among the other dancers.
Pantalone was good. The Regrator moved with a grace and ease that put many attending to shame. It didn't even trigger the Doctor's motion sickness. For his part, Dottore easily kept up with the younger man. He may be getting older, but he was not going to stumble about like a clumsy fool.
"I am trying to secure my funding," Dottore said matter-of-factly.
"Or perhaps old age is making you sentimental, Zandik," Pantalone said, drawing out the syllables of the Doctor's given name like it was wine he wanted to savor in his mouth.
Dottore felt a thrill of pleasure slide down his spine at hearing the Regrator say his name like that. Like it was a precious thing–like that word belonged only on Pantalone's tongue.
His reaction must have been more evident than he thought, for he noticed the smile curling at the corners of the Regrator's mouth. Like a fox that had just walked into a full hen house. Dottore felt heat rise in his cheeks and decided to push back.
"Are you sure it's not you being the sentimental one… Fanya?" He retorted, making sure to draw out the word with all the sweetness of honey.
Annoyance flashed in the other man's eyes when Dottore called him by the pet name. He felt the grip on his waist tighten almost painfully in warning, and it was Dottore's turn to smile. It was more than worth it to see that reaction. A glimpse real emotion underneath that pleasant facade Pantalone usually wore.
"Feeling cheeky, now?" Pantalone asked, a warning edge creeping into his smooth voice.
"Perhaps your impudent nature has begun to rub off on me," Dottore replied, still smiling.
Pantalone laughed softly. "You act as if the Tsaritsa, Pierro, and Pulcinella don't already know your birth name," he said, glancing up to where said three stood.
"Yes, but they don't," Dottore answered, indicating the sea of dancers around them. "And I would prefer to keep it that way."
Pantalone hummed in amusement. "Since when have you started caring about what others think?"
Dottore didn't, but he knew there was a power in names. Despite the negative connotations it had in his native language, it was his. It wasn't something a random person got to have.
Of course, Pantalone was no ordinary person.
The Regrator pulled him closer as the music slowed down and lowered his lips to Dottore's ear. "Do you remember when we first met?"
Zandik barely suppressed a shudder at the sensation of Feofan's warm breath in his ear.
How could he ever forget?
Seventeen years ago..
"Doctor–"
Dottore let out a long-suffering sigh and looked over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"It's one of the subjects, Doctor–" The subordinate began.
"If they are agitated, have them restrained and given an extra dose of the sedative. We have been over this," Dottore cut them off, irritation laced through his voice.
He'd been arranging his dissection tools in preparation for said subjects when the subordinate had entered, interrupting his work. He was already in a bad mood after the meeting with Pulcinella, where his funding request had been denied. Again.
The arrival of fresh subjects provided a welcome distractions from thoughts of having that Rooster on his dissection table. However…
"It's not that, sir," The subordinate insisted, shaking their head. "The subject is requesting to speak with you."
"Oh? What are they offering? Mora? "Special favors"?" Dottore inquired in a mocking tone.
"Er, no sir. He just said that he wanted to speak to the Doctor. I told him that you might not come even if I spoke to you. He just smiled and said, very politely: "Then I will wait here until the Doctor comes to see me himself."."
Dottore was quiet for a while, thinking. It could be a trick–an attempt to lower his guard and give the subject a chance to escape. Not that they would get far, but still. On the other hand…
"How did the subject appear?" He asked. "Distressed? Anxious?"
The subordinate shook their head. "No sir. He's been rather calm, actually. Almost docile."
"Hmm… Fine," Dottore said after some thought. He stepped away from the table, a scalpel in one hand–just in case. "Where are they?"
"Exam room two," The subordinate replied. "Shall I–"
"No, go deal with the others," Dottore said with a dismissive wave. "I am more than capable of handling myself if the subject tries anything."
The subordinate dipped their head in acknowledgement before Dottore made his way to Exam room two.
If anything, this should be entertaining.
Dottore reached the exam room and opened the door to reveal the odd subject.
They appeared to be male–with a slim build, dressed entirely in black. Their clothes looked torn and smudged with dirt, as if they had been dragged over cobblestones before being rolled down a steep hill. Their dark, wavy hair reached their shoulders in a disheveled mess with a few stray locks dangling over their face.
Dottore immediately noticed the bruises, scrapes, and small cuts on the subject's pale skin. Despite this, the subject looked up and smiled pleasantly at Dottore. Which made the large cut on their lip bleed.
"Ah, so the Doctor has decided to see me. A pleasure," They said as Dottre entered, closing the door behind him. The subject attempted to dab some of the blood on their lip off, but only ended up smearing more onto their hand.
"Sorry, I look like such a mess," They apologized. "I tried to make myself look more presentable before you walked in. I didn't want to give the wrong impression."
Dottore blinked underneath his mask. The subject was fully alert and oriented, and spoke with a smooth, even voice that conveyed no distress nor pleading. They sat on the edge of the exam table, hands gripping the edge while their legs dangled casually above the floor. They looked–for all the world, like they were here for an ordinary checkup.
This… Wasn't something Dottore was expecting.
"I was told that you wish to speak with me," Dottore said, hoping that he didn't convey too much of his astonishment.
The subject nodded. Looking at them more closely, Dottore could see they were rather young. He wouldn't have placed them no older than nineteen or twenty. Although, they bore themselves with the dignity of a much older man.
"Yes," The subject said. "I was hoping to speak about my current predicament."
Dottore couldn't help but chuckle. "Really? Are you hoping to be spared of my experiment?"
"If possible, yes," The subject replied. They winced slightly and adjusted their position on the table. The Doctor was intrigued to see that the subject had rather pretty face despite their raggedness. Worthy of being minted onto coins or captured in a painting.
"You're not Snezhneyan, are you?" The subject asked after a moment. "Where are you from, Doctor?"
Dottore frowned at being found out so quickly. "Sumeru. Why?"
The subject let out a few low, shuddering breaths. Dottore suspected they had some internal injuries in addition to their superficial ones, but he made no comment on this.
"I've heard…" They said, once they regained composure. "An interesting tale from there. About a king who, after having his wife executed for adultery, has his subsequent brides killed on the wedding night," He took a deep breath, leaning back slightly. "One day, a woman offers herself up to the king as his next bride. That night, when the king is about to have her killed, she begs the king to allow her to tell one story."
"He agrees to her request," They continued. "The tale she weaves is so wondrous that the king cannot help but listen. Then, just as the story reaches its climax, dawn breaks. The king allows her to live another day so he can hear the end. When she finishes the story that night, she begins another that's just as wondrous. So once again, the king let's her to live another day. This goes for one thousand and one nights. Until the king allows her to live for good."
Dottore hummed. "I am familiar with the tale," He confessed. "What are you getting at with this?"
"If I were to tell you a compelling enough tale, Doctor," The subject began with a faint smile. "Would you be willing to at least delay my fate?"
Dottore laughed. Actually threw back his head and laughed at the subject's boldness. "This is no fairytale, boy," He said with a wicked smile. "I am no king, and pretty as you are–you are no princess. I could still have you dissected."
The subject shrugged. "It's worth a try."
Dottore snorted. This was almost too much. If he didn't have control over himself, he would literally be on the floor laughing at this ridiculousness.
At the same time, his curiosity was piqued. The subject had remained calm the entire time, and had not resorted to the tired shrieks or begging for mercy of the others. Despite their injuries, they remained coherent. There was also something about the way they spoke that was oddly pleasing to the Doctor.
Dottore sighed. "Why not?" He leaned against a nearby table so that he was half sitting on the surface. "I'll humor you. Go on, boy. Spin your tale."
The subject grinned–causing another drop of blood to bead on their lip. They tried to pull their legs up to sit cross-legged, but winced in pain. In the end, they settled for tucking one ankle beneath their knee while the other leg dangled free.
"Twenty years ago," The subject began. "A boy was born in a town that sat at the foot of a tall mountain. The third son, and the fourth child of a family of nine. His family was rather poor. Even though his father, older brothers and sisters worked themselves to the bone, what little Mora they scraped up was never quite enough for them."
The subject paused to take a deep breath, leaning a bit to their left.
"The boy would look on in envy at the other children as they raced over the frozen pond in band new skates. He and his sister often gazed longingly into the shop windows that displayed warm furs, shining toys, or glittering jewelry. He would go to bed dreaming of the warm pelmeni or vatrushkas at the street vendor's stalls."
The subject closed their eyes briefly, and Dottore couldn't tell if they were reminiscing, or tempering a surge of pain. Perhaps both.
"One day… Monks from came to the town, willing to take on boys as novices at the monastery. The boy's family was very devout, and held unshakable faith in the gods. The boy's parents believed that giving the boy to the clergy would please them and bless their family. Besides, it was one less mouth to feed."
The subject said the last part with an ironic smile before they continued.
"So, at ten years old, the boy–along with a few others, returned with the monks to their monastery. When they walked inside, the boy had to pinch himself to make sure he was still alive..for he couldn't believe what he saw. Underneath his feet were polished marble floors. The icons of the saints and gods hanging on the walls were painted in bright colors and gold leaf. Candles burned in silver candlesticks, softly illuminating the golden crosses. When he expressed amazement, the elder priest smiled and told him that all wealth and beauty came from the gods. It was only fitting their house should display that."
The subject let out a muffled groan before they continued.
"The boy learned to read and write. He memorized the holy scriptures and prayers, and tried to follow the teachings of the monks. He attended all the services and observed the pilgrims who came to the monastery. Yet, it didn't take long for the hypocrisy of the monks to show themselves. The boy witnessed a few of the priests demand more than the ten percent required from the patrons, only to use the extra to fuel their own vices. When he tried to report this is the Father Superior, he was punished with confinement."
While the subject was talking, Dottore had been staring down at the scalpel he'd been turning over in his fingers. At the change in the subject's voice, he stopped and looked up.
"All the boy could think of as those monks hoarded all that Mora was how just one of those silver candlesticks in the chapel could feed his whole family for a month."
The youth's voice became edged with bitterness. Anger flashed in those eyes, an emotion that fascinated Dottore as he began to listen more attentively.
"A few years passed, and while his peers grew more quiet, pious and contemplative–the boy grew more sullen and bitter. The prayers from his mouth were hollow words. The scriptures he read only serving to nurture his resentment and anger. The gods held sway over the fates of men, including their riches. The priests always told us that ours was to give and never to possess. It was God's will."
The young man clenched his jaw. "So was it part of God's grand design for he and his family would live in squalor forever while corrupt monks lined their own pockets? Was it God's plan for me to never have any of the wealth he was constantly surrounded by? If the gods punished all sinners, why did they not strike these hypocrites down? If they controlled wealth, why were these hypocrites living like kings while I received scraps?"
The young man ran a hand through his hair and shut his eyes tightly. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, before he finally cooled somewhat.
"One day, the boy had enough. During morning service, he stood and loudly asked the priest why the gods required Mora when they already held the all the destinies of men in their palms. He declared that all the gold, silver and jewels of the church should go to men instead, since they would get better use out of it."
"For that, the boy was harshly punished. He was confined and ordered to repent for speaking blasphemy. Priest after priest came to speak with him. Some gentle, some harsh. They all tried to convince him to go before the Father Superior and beg forgiveness."
Zandik quietly watched the youth. He was reminded of his Akademiya days, where the exasperated instructors begged him to just let it go, or he would be expelled for research into "forbidden" knowledge.
"Did he repent?" He asked
"He did not." The young man answered. "Even when the Father Superior himself came. When the Father Superior warned him that the gods would punish him, the boy laughed. He said that the gods never punished the monks who broke their vows by taking on mistresses in the town. Nor the ones who filled their own pockets with Mora from the devout. Why would they punish him for speaking the truth?"
"That was the final straw. At fourteen, the boy was forced out of the monastery with the few possessions he had. He was told to leave and never return. The boy walked some distance and at first, thought of simply returning home. However, he knew that his father would throw him out once he learned the truth. He could never go back home."
Zandik was quiet as he considered the youth's words. He recalled the bruising grip of the matra's hands on his arms as they dragged him away from the Akademiya for the last time.
"So what did the boy do?" He asked.
The youth chuckled. "He crept back to the monastery, and waited by the garden wall until all the monks were asleep. Then, he found a spot in the wall that he knew well. He moved them aside the stones covering the hole in the wall until it was big enough for him to squeeze through. Once inside, he crept through the empty halls and into the chapel. If the gods would not give him wealth, then he would take it himself. He grabbed two silver candlesticks, a golden cross, the engraved goblet that would hold the sacred wine, and the fine silken cover of the pulpit. When he had what he needed, he went back through his entrance."
The youth smiled at this like it was a fond memory.
Dottore turned the scalpel over thoughtfully in his fingers. "What happened next?"
The young man's smile faltered a bit. "The boy took his stolen goods to another city. He used the money selling them to try and start a business where he would buy goods and sell them for twice their market value."
Dottore raised an eyebrow. "I imagine that didn't go well."
The youth was silent for a moment. "For a time at least, everything seemed fine," He grimaced, and let out a low hiss of pain when he adjusted his position.
"One day, some gang members purchased some firearms from him. When they lost a local gang war, they naturally, framed the young man. The gang destroyed his shop, then tracked him down. After giving him a solid beating, they destroyed his home and sold him off to a medical research lab."
Dottore hummed thoughtfully. "That is a compelling tale. You could have made a fortune as an author."
The youth gave him a crooked smile. "I did consider it at some point."
Dottore laughed softly through his nose. "A shame that the young man's story ends so abruptly," He twirled the scalpel in his fingers. "All that only to end up expiring on the dissection table. But… Such is life."
"Oh?" The young man arched a brow at him. "Is that how you think it ends?"
Dottore shrugged. "There is no other way it can end,"
"A shame…" He thought. "I was starting to actually like this poor boy."
To his surprise, the young man chuckled. "No… Not the only way."
"You sound so sure. If it makes you feel better, know that your body will be put to good use."
The young man laughed at this, a sound that was oddly pleasant to Dottore's ears. It was cut short by the youth's hiss of pain.
"As… Fun as that sounds, Doctor," He said, rubbing his side. "There are other ways I can help you, and I'm afraid that I won't be of any use to you dead."
"You? Help me?" Dottore asked with a derisive chuckle.
"Even if you dissect me, it won't give you what you really want."
Dottore's head cocked to the side, like a crow that had spotted an interesting trinket. "Pray tell me boy, what do you think I want?"
The young man laughed through his nose and looked up at the Doctor. His lips remained fixed in a faint smile, but there was something about his eyes. Something about the way he looked at Dottore made him feel… Odd.
"More," The youth said quietly. He slowly stood up from the exam table. "You want more than what you've been given."
He gazed at Dottore with unblinking violet eyes as he took a step towards the Doctor. "You want more than this small laboratory. More than what these dissections on subpar subjects can give you."
Dottore stiffened, grip on the scalpel tightening as the youth took another step towards him. He realized with slight irritation, that the young man was taller than him. Not by much, but enough that he had to lift his head slightly to look him in the eye. If he tried anything, Dottore would make sure he ended up on the table.
He took another step, then another. Each one slow and measured like a cat's as he approached the Doctor. Those eyes pinned him in place, and Dottore cursed himself for being so weak as to be frozen like prey by a mere boy.
He raised the scalpel in a silent warning, but the young man continued to advance.
"If you let me live, I'll make sure to give you more," He said, voice soft as velvet in Dottore's ears. "I could give you better equipment, more reagents and materials. Access to tools and spaces that you could only wish for."
He smiled, and there was a darkness in that expression that made Dottore's heart pound. He stopped just a foot away from the Doctor, the scalpel hovering inches away from his chest.
"Don't try and play me, boy," Dottore hissed, his voice laced with subdued fury. "You are in no position to make empty promises. If you hope to save yourself by lying through your teeth, you are sorely mistaken."
The youth raised an eyebrow. "You think I can't do it?"
He moved faster than Dottore thought possible, given his injuries. A hand grabbed his wrist and tried to wrench it free, but the young man was far stronger than he thought. The youth took advantage of the Doctor's temporary distraction to hook the fingers of his free hand under his mask.
Dottore's eyes widened in shock as his mask was pulled free. Angry at the man's brazen action, he attempted to push him away. All of a sudden, the Doctor was crowded back against the table with the man's thigh pressing hard between his legs. Dottore snarled and attempted to knee the man in the groin, but the youth pressed his thigh hard against Dottore's crotch. The Doctor bit down a groan in response to the pain and… Pleasure?
"Now, we can be more honest with each other," The youth said pleasantly. As if he didn't have the Doctor's wrist in an iron grip and the rest of the man pinned.
"You are going to die, boy," Dottore spit, glaring up at the man.
"No… I don't think I will, Doctor. Not today," The youth responded with a smirk. "I ask again: Do you I can't do it?"
"And why would you want to help me?" Dottore growled. "Because right now, I'm tempted to bleed you dry and have your corpse used as fertilizer."
"Because when someone does a favor for me, I make sure to pay them back," The youth replied. "That is the very nature of relationships, no? Quid pro quo. Mutual benefit, mutual reward."
Dottore did not bother to respond. Even if he agreed with the youth, he wasn't going to concede with someone who had him pressed against a table.
"I saw how you looked at me," The youth continued. "When I spoke of blasphemy. Of the unfair destiny the gods place on mankind. I believe that you have been the victim of an unjust fate. One that has lain heavy over you all your life."
Dottore remained stubbornly silent, despite how the man's words flowed into his mind like ink spreading through water. Flashes of memory sprang up in his mind. Of the night that echoed with cries of "blasphemer" and "heretic". The disapproving glares of his peers when he questioned the "sins" defined by the Akademiya.
"That anger," The man said, his voice like silk. "That resentment I see in those ruby eyes of yours... It's a fire that's kept you warm even here in frozen Snezhneya. I want to help you turn it into a blaze that would burn even the gods. If you don't believe me…"
The hand on Dottore's wrist pulled so that the blade of the scalpel was a hair's breath away from the youth's slender throat.
"Then you are welcome to kill me here and now."
Slowly, he guided the Doctor's hand to press the edge of the blade against his skin. Right on the pulse.
Dottore glared up at the man. This had to be a trick. He put the slightest pressure on the scalpel and saw a thin line of blood form at the edge of the metal. The youth didn't even flinch as he stared expectantly at the Doctor.
Dottore could smell him. The metallic tang of blood, mixed with dirt and dried sweat. Underneath that was something else, faint and oddly pleasant. Musk? Bergamot? A remnant of the youth's life before tonight. He could feel the slender thigh, still pressed against his groin, taut with lean muscle.
He couldn't look away from those violet eyes. The youth's dark lashes were long and thick, and perfectly framed his eyes–so close that Dottore could see faint specks of blue in the irises.
Dottore felt naked under that gaze. As if he were the one being strapped down and splayed open for all to see. They stripped away his flesh, his muscle–layer by layer until he was staring right into his soul. Something in his lizard brain wanted to turn away and escape. To hide from those eyes that saw right to the core of him.
He didn't. In defiance of even his basic instinct, Dottore raised his chin in defiance to glare at the man. He refused to run or back down. If he did, then he knew he was lost.
The man smiled in amusement, the tip of his index finger began to circle lightly over the knuckle of Dottore's gloved hand. A motion that was almost… Tender.
"Well, Doctor?"
The man spoke just barely above a whisper–his voice curling seductively in Dottore's ears.
Dottore felt a change come over him, like a switch had been flipped inside him. The thigh pressed between his legs was still painful, but the pain had become more tolerable and bordered into something like… Pleasure. The finger circling his knuckle made his stomach flutter oddly. As he stared up into those eyes that saw all of him… A strange heat filled his body. Something that surprised and intrigued him.
"Can he truly do it, though?" He thought in an attempt to distract himself from his own body. "Can he truly help me? Will he able to get me what I want?"
One last memory came to him. A tall man with white hair and beard held out a hand to him. "Come, your intellect and talent are wasted out in this desert."
"Will you chase me out with clubs and torches? Like they did in my hometown?" His younger self asked.
The white-haired man smiled. "No. We have need of intellect like yours."
The young man waited patiently for his response, and Zandik made his decision.
He pulled the scalpel away from the man's throat. The youth grinned and released Zandik's hand.
"No," He muttered. "I don't think you are lying, boy."
"I'm glad you can see that," The young man said brightly. He stepped away from Zandik, who was finally able to breathe again. Though, he felt an odd sense of loss at the lack of contact. He would examine that later.
"Although, I must ask," Zandik said, placing his scalpel on the table. "What do you hope to gain from this… Arrangement? What is it that you want?"
The youth's eyes flashed. "I want to strip the so-called gods of all their finery and reveal them for the false idols that they are," He said in a low, intense voice. "I want to hold the beating, golden heart of the world in my hands. I want to be the one that when those same gods come crawling, begging for scraps-to be the one who tells them "no"."
The young man's eyes shone with that almost fevered intensity. Zandik could see the flame of resentment and rage burning in those amethyst eyes. An emotion that he was all too familiar with.
"Perhaps," Zandik thought. "This arrangement can work."
The young man's expression suddenly twisted in pain. His hand went to his side and he couldn't stop the loud groan of pain that escaped him.
Dottore sighed. Well, it wouldn't do for him to die right now.
"Come," The Doctor said, holding out a hand. "Let me examine you. Then, I will treat you injuries."
The youth gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, Doctor."
"Don't thank me just yet," Dottore reminded. "I still expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. Disappoint me, and you may very well end up on my dissecting table."
The young man nodded. "I understand. By the way… May I know the name of the Doctor who is treating me?"
"Why?" Dottore asked cautiously.
"We're going to be working together," The youth pointed out. "It would make things a bit easier, no?"
"You have a point," Dottore admitted. "I will tell you on one condition: You are not to utter it in the presence of any subordinates."
"Understood."
After a moment's silence, Dottore spoke again. "My name, the one my mother gave to me–is Zandik."
"Zandik…" The youth murmured. Something about the way he said his name was gratifying to Zandik. He wouldn't mind hearing the young man again say it, again.
"And what about you, boy?" Zandik asked.
The young man smiled up at him. "Feofan," He replied. "Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel," The man, Feofan–reached up to take Zandik's hand. "I look forward to working with you, Zandik."
Feofan more than held up his end of the bargain, which impressed Zandik. In the seventeen years that followed, Feofan consistently proved that Zandik's decision to spare him was the correct one.
Zandik gradually came to consider the man as something of an equal. Mainly because they held similar views about the gods and fate, but more importantly… Feofan actually listened to him.
Rather than disgust or dismissal, Feofan showed interest in his work and engaged in their conversations with various questions about his experiments. It was odd, but it felt… Nice.
Feofan relied on him for his health, just as Zandik relied on the man's Mora for his projects. It was a perfect, mutualistic relationship and Zandik was content. Except…
Since that first encounter, the odd sensation Zandik felt when Feofan had pressed against him didn't fade away. In fact, it only seemed to increase the more time they spent with each other.
His gaze lingered over the dark curls of Feofan's hair and traced the line of his throat. He was transfixed by curve of his lips, and on the brief flash of his tongue that flicked out to lick away wine from his lips after he finished a glass. On several of the subsequent examinations, Zandik had to refrain from letting his touch linger for longer than was appropriate on Feofan's smooth, fair skin.
Zandik did his best to supress it, but of course, Feofan caught on. He would look at Zandik with those eyes that saw right into the core of him, and smile as if he was privy to some naughty secret.
"Is something on my face, Doctor?"
"What has you so distracted, Zandik?"
Were the questions Feofan would often ask, accompanied with a smug expression and a slow blink with those gorgeous lashes. That look alone filled Zandik with all kinds of heat.
It didn't take them long to fall into bed with each other.
Zandik was no blushing virgin. He'd been with a few others before Feofan, but those had been quick affairs. His experiments were more far important.Feofan changed all of that.
Zandik never understood why the Fontainians referred to the orgasm as "a little death" until Feofan. Before, he would have scoffed at the idea of bottoming, and have been scandalized if someone had suggested he was submissive in any way. It was Feofan who showed him what he had been missing.
During their nights together, they would go at it until every bit of lust in their bodies was extinguished. Until they could do nothing but lay in Feofan's silk sheets, too exhausted to even move. Zandik hoped they would never stop, and if his latest project succeeded–they never would.
However, there had been another change these past few years. It began when Feofan had arrived at his lab with a gunshot wound and other injuries. For the first time in his life, Zandik stopped what he was doing to rushed to the younger man's aid.
Upon seeing the man with blood soaking the sleeve of his left arm, cuts and bruises marring his skin–Zandik felt an odd coldness wash over him. The only thought in his mind as he treated Feofan was: "Someone is going to die. Painfully."
Feofan had refused to give the reason as to who or what caused such an injury. Only stating that he would not: "Compromise the client's privacy."
Zandik managed to find out anyway, and had some new test subjects within a week.
He'd begun to linger in Feofan's bed for longer and longer after their sessions. At first, Zandik chalked it up to exhaustion from their fucking and his age. Yet, he felt an odd sense of security when he sensed Feofan's presence next to him. Waking up the next morning in the heavy silk sheets, surrounded by Feofan's scent had become a routine.
One snowy morning, Zandik had waited inside Feofan's office to submit his budget request. When the door opened and the banker entered, Zandik couldn't take his eyes off of him. A few stubborn flakes of snow that refused to melt clung tightly to his hair and lashes. His cheeks were flushed slightly from the cold as Feofan let out a relieved sigh.
"Ah, apologies for making you wait. What can I do for you, Zandik?"
Whatever Zandik had wanted to say died on his tongue. The melting droplets in his lashes made them sparkle, and the way his cheeks looked dusted with pink…
Something clenched inside of Zandik at the sight. Feofan had to ask him twice more before he returned to his senses.
Another instance happened when he witnessed Feofan giving instructions to one of the female workers at the bank. The woman smiled like a fool as she batted her lashes at the banker–giving him such a look of such slavish infatuation that would make anyone cringe.
Feofan paid no mind to this, but Zandik had felt a hot, sick feeling in his gut when he witnessed that. Never in all his life had he wanted to take his scalpel to a complete stranger's eyes and gouge them out.
He'd tried to dismiss it. He was in a bad mood, and was just directing his foul thoughts to whoever was nearby. Feofan was a very attractive man–it was only natural that his looks drew attention.
Just the thought on anyone looking at Feofan with such adoration, or worse–of the banker looking at anyone else like that(Not that he ever would.), made hot bile rise up in Zandik's throat.
This obsession, this possessiveness was a new thing for him. No other person made Zandik like this. In his fifty years of life had no other person infected his thoughts like this man. He wanted to sink his teeth into Feofan's perfect flesh and taste his blood. He wanted to the be the one filling the man's lungs instead of that disgusting cigarette smoke. He wanted to crawl up inside of him and make Feofan his.
That was why the Elixir had to work. If it did, then he and Feofan would be immortal. More importantly, Feofan would not leave him.
In the present, Dottore kept his gaze fixed on the man before him as they danced. He could see that unreadable emotion in Feofan's eyes. It almost resembled fondness–maybe affection.
Zandik knew that it was impossible, because Feofan was like him. Something like love was a fool's dream for men like them. So they settled for this positive symbiosis. Equivalent exchange with Mutual benefits and mutual reward.
The dance ended with the song, and Dottore felt a slight pang of loss when Pantalone released him.
"Thank you for the dance, Doctor," Pantalone said as he bowed.
"Yes," Dottore replied, returning the gesture. "Although I fear my patience for such gatherings has been spent. It's time I went home."
He turned to leave, but Pantalone seized his hand. "Straight home?" He inquired with a raised brow.
Dottore set his jaw, doing his best to display annoyance he didn't truly feel.
"Yes, where else?"
"We're on the verge of something great, Doctor," Pantalone said, voice like silk. "Why not celebrate?"
Dottore's heart pounded at the suggestion, and at the dark promise in Pantalone's eyes.
"You have to key to my home, no?" Pantalone inquired. Smiling, because he already knew the answer.
Dottore glared at Pantalone with all the chagrin he could muster. "I'm leaving," He said stiffly. "Goodnight, Feofan."
"Goodnight, Zandik," Feofan said. The tip of his finger brushed over Zandik's knuckle before he finally released him.
Zandik turned and walked out of the ballroom, feeling Feofan's eyes on him like a predator tracking it's prey.
Pantalone watched Dottore leave with a satisfied smile. He knew where the Doctor would be tonight, and it wouldn't be his laboratory.
He lingered a while longer at the ball–making polite conversation and connections. All of this seemed trivial after his dance with Dottore. Still, he wanted to give Dottore some time to make it to his destination.
Soon, the clock in the hall struck midnight. Many of the guests were leaving, and Pantalone finished off his cigarette before heading outside with the other departing guests.
Once comfortable inside the carriage, Feofan pulled another cigarette out from a silver case, and lit it with an engraved lighter, also made of silver. He inhaled, feeling the pleasant burn in his body before he opened the window and blew a plume of smoke out into the winter night.
It was hard to believe that he was once a failed business owner that had been sold as a test subject to a "mad doctor". He only knew then, that he had only one chance to live. So, he took a gamble.
He honestly didn't expect it to pay off as well as it did or, for the "mad doctor" to be younger and more handsome than he thought. He also never imagined to find someone who thought the same way he did about the so-called gods, with the same goal of pulling them down from their lofty pedestals.
With the additional funds he provided, Dottore had worked miracles. In return, Dottore made sure that he was given a position that suited his talents. Quid pro quo. Mutual benefit and equivalent exchange.
Feofan sighed, letting out another plume of smoke.
If only some of his clients understood that. Maybe then, they wouldn't try to shoot him. It was moments like that, Feofan was glad to have a doctor ready to tend to him–and to discreetly deal with those clients.
He'd noticed how Dottore would look at him sometimes. How his touch would linger just a bit too long when he examined him. Feofan knew the kind of effect he had on Dottore, and he would be lying if some of that wasn't purposefully induced by him.
Besides, Dottore was handsome. Why not? He reasoned.
Zandik had balked at the thought of bottoming, but Feofan had been patient. They would try it once. If he didn't like it, they wouldn't do it again.
Safe to say, Zandik ended up enjoying it quite a bit with how hard he came. Convincing him to sub had been more difficult, but in the end the results were the same.
Feofan smiled. He had the Second Harbinger wrapped around his finger in more ways than one. The fact he provided the funds for the man's experiments was something Feofan relished.
One of those experiments would soon grant them the eternal life they sought. Just thinking of it made Feofan shudder in anticipation.
He remembered how Zandik looked when he suggested the idea. There was a spark that always flashed his carmine eyes whenever he found a new project to throw himself into, and Feofan listened to him talk at length about the possibilities of creating such a miracle.
Feofan didn't always understand all of what Zandik said when he went on about his experiments. Yet, he felt a strange warmth anytime he heard that eager quiver in Zandik's voice. It was oddly endearing in a way.
Feofan remembered the first time he woke to find Zandik still in his bed, skin mottled with the marks from last night. Something about the way his pale lashes looked in the morning light–how the long, curling lock of hair fell gracefully over his cheek. It made him look surreal, like something out of a painting. He'd been so fascinated, that he didn't even bother to wake him at first. As the years passed, those moments became more frequent. This feeling was new to him, but it wasn't unpleasant.
As much as he disliked the mask, Feofan was grateful for it. If other people saw Zandik's full face, they would be wanting the Doctor for themselves. He clenched his free hand tightly at the thought.
No. He wouldn't allow it. Zandik was a rare talent, and he would not let him slip away.
Feofan closed his eyes and tried to think of more pleasant thoughts. Their dance had been nice, especially for one as reserved as the Doctor. That close, he'd been able to smell Zandik's cologne. A gift Feofan had given Zandik for his fiftieth birthday that he had specially made for him. Notes of citrus and cedar that were not overpowering, and reminiscent of a morning in Sumeru. The later notes however, were bergamot and lavender. Components in his own cologne.
It thrilled Feofan to no end to think of Zandik wearing his scent. Making sure that everyone at that ball knew who he belonged to. He wondered if still lingered on Zandik's skin.
Feofan smiled and tossed his spent cigarette out the window. He'd been starving for a good time tonight. Soon, he would feast to his heart's content.