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Various exquisite vials, small wooden boxes with carved ornaments, miniature tins that looked like ones from caramels stood on the dressing table in an arbitrary but elegant manner, and pale golden rays of sun danced beautifuly on them on a lazy winter morning. The invariable frost covered the windows, yet even it could not conceal the proximity of spring. Indeed, the snow need not melt for a hope to bloom.
Dottore stared at the patterns and swirls on the glass for an entirely different reason, though. No, he wasn't blind to beauty- okay, maybe he was, but even then, he couldn't bear to raise his eyes.
"Dear."
With a small sigh, he gazed up at Pantalone, hoping the begging for mercy would not be somehow betrayed by what little of his face his mask showed. He bit into the inside of his cheek, though, pressing the resilient tissue down into the microscopic gap between two of his lower teeth. It just felt good.
"Shall we start?"
Pantalone smiled at him. His warm mood radiated off him; it also added to his patience. Contrary to the popular belief, the Ninth harbinger did not dislike days off, he simply disliked being told when to have them. Today and yesterday were his choices, so he practically glowed with benevolence.
His eyes glowed with benevolence and contentment as he looked at Dottore, and that was why he couldn't bear to meet them. Reluctantly, he lowered his head again. With utmost care, he picked up a dark pencil from the dressing table. His fingers closed on it in the same position as if it were a syringe prepared for intracutaneous injection, and Pantalone smiled wider at that. Dottore quickly put the pencil back.
"I must warn you," he began, then cleared his throat. "I have extremely limited experience with this. Close to no-"
Not that he didn't want to learn, not that he couldn't, but, for the sake of the godless sky above them-
"You have told me this already." Pantalone's voice insisted, asserting his will, but it did not demand. No, it rang quite gentle. He allowed a pause to let his words sink in, and then placed his hand atop Dottore's. "I hoard no expectations for this one. It is simply a way to pass the time, hm? Do not worry so much."
Dottore drew in a hopeless breath, and, forgetting to really exhale, reached out towards the glass with various brushes, but stopped his hand midway. He stared back at Pantalone with a pitiful expression, and his mask was the only thing saving the last scraps of his dignity.
He whispered, begged, shaking his head, "I do not know how to do makeup."
Pantalone sighed.
"I am going to disfigure your face," the doctor warned, his tone freezing back to familiar coldness just on reflex. However... for once, he dreaded what he warned of. "I... have never had the chance to practice, not that I am completely opposed to the idea, of c-"
Another reassuring yet firm squeeze kindly pinned his hand to the dressing table.
"Dottie, calm down."
He lowered his head by an inch, but internally, he crashed through all the five floors of his closest colleague's manor. Oh please, benevolent earth, swallow him up and detach atom by atom till nothing is left but peace.
Even staying at a place so great, so intimate had him need two pills of sedatives at bedtime instead of the habitual one. Not that he hadn't wanted- not that he regretted it now, by no means, but his skin crawled when Pantalone, seriously or not, it was hard to tell after a few drinks, offered him to share a bed (just that). He had declined. That paresthesia wasn't a good feeling. It still hadn't settled. Perhaps he was developing a tolerance to damn sedatives. He always got used to, to everything but Pantalone. Just when he had thought their working relationship had reached its plateau, the man invited him for private celebration of Liyuen New Year. Just when he had thought it would be a mastermind chess game of political interests and social graces on thin February ice, Pantalone kindly dragged him to his bedroom and offered to do his makeup. (The chess mode in Dottore's head had never really shut down.)
"Listen to me."
He obeyed.
"There is no risk. I do not need to get ready for work today. Even if the result is bad, it can be washed off in a minute. ...Is anything worrying you?"
"No, no, I'm getting down to work," Dottore hurried to brush off all this prying into his twisted mind, and he sat closer to the other man, and began picking a shade of lipstick from a great selection of these on the dressing table. Not that he knew what he was looking for. Something dark. You can't go wrong with dark shades and Pantalone.
His colleague's - partner's, they were work partners by now - gaze casually trailed up and down him, lingering on his currently gloveless hands like gentle sun on photosensitive skin. Tender enough to receive credit for trying, but the surface still bubbled up with blisters of shame. After a while, Dottore glanced back, only to gauge if this dark yet cool shade of lipstick wouldn't look completely awful on Pantalone. The color reminded him of livor mortis. He grinned to himself, yet soon hus smile faded, and he set the small tube of lipstick back down with a small motion.
He didn't want to see this color on Pantalone, perhaps, on him alone of all people.
February was like this. He needed calciferols, he needed iron supplements, he needed someone to die from something other than hypothermia; he needed variety, he wasn't quite himself.
After a long time, he actually picked a neutral beige color, together with a plain black eye pencil, because they all looked black anyways. This seemed so scarce compared to the several drawers of makeup products, but he simply didn't know what any of it was for. Old lipsticks contained heavy metals. Some recently popular hand creme caused allergies and melanomas. That he knew. ...Not much more.
"Close your eyes," he commanded almost coldly, but really, his words simply came out quick, followed by a small sigh of relief.
It was way better when Pantalone couldn't see him.
He lifted the man's chin with his open hand, took off the cap from the tube of lipstick with his other, twisted it open that same way. He noticed that he kept it all within 30 cm radius from the organizer. Ah, microbiology would teach one more peculiar habits than this. A hint of a smile found its way to the doctor's lips, and he touched the lipstick against his partner's relaxed lips ever so lightly.
"Do not hesitate, press harder," Pantalone commented, his mouth shaping into a pleased, pleased smile.
Dottore obeyed silently. And oh, glad he was to do so.
He watched the process closely as the neutral yet stylish medium beige colored the man's lips, and only then did it occur to him that red, bloody red would look even better, perhaps smeared out the way Arlecchino did hers, whatever was the name for this style or product. Perhaps just on the lower lip, too. Oh how it would set ablaze his partner's look - in a good way. Dottore's smile widened as he felt his legs weaken from the mere mental image. This was a pleasant feeling, despite it making him want to kneel. He wouldn't mind kneeling.
So he dreamed, - wasn't each calm, undisturbed and slow moment with Pantalone a dream? - while he picked up the eye pencil, and didn't waver at the unexpected realization that he has no idea as of what to do with it. He wouldn't dare risk messing it up. Lips at least had clear margins within which the color stayed. Eyeliner, though? From what he's seen, it followed way fewer anatomical rules. And yet, that didn't even pause him.
Humming a tune, he got to fulfilling his creative vision, and in no time Pantalone made a surprised, but not disappointed noise as he detected the trajectory of pencil against his skin. "I see you're working on some masterpiece here," he commented, his voice filled with a smile. "I didn't know you had it in you, doctor."
"Want to see my other art someday?" Dottore offered, teasing lightly and still marvelling at what desires filled his mind around this man. To meet with him. To show him something. To-
"No. Her Majesty forbid."
They both laughed softly.
Lost in the dance of artistic inspiration and perfectionism, Dottore kept refining his work, adding a dot here, going over a line there, until it was irreproachable, but it had been irreproachable all the way from the start, for on which other occasion would his canvas be the most beautiful person in all of Teyvat? He surrendered to this beauty, not his will, but his consciousness - to its peaceful influence, to the warm thoughts that flooded his head like generous and impatient streams once the snow began to melt just the slightest bit. He allowed the man to consume his thoughts, and oh, he'd pull out a silver platter for this one.
"I see you've got invested in this," Pantalone chuckled.
"Maybe," he brushed it away kindly. "You're stuck with me for a while now."
He meant it in an almost self-deprecating way, but then Pantalone lets out a soft sigh, "I know."
"I know."
He doesn't seem to mind. And the doctor's hand may not waver, but his heart quivers madly.
"Done." He signals after a couple more minutes. A sigh of satisfaction escapes his lips when he takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest, and admires his creation. Maybe not just it.
"Now, you may open your eyes, and recoil in horror of what I've committed," he hums slowly, with a hint of his usual superiority, "in one, two... three."
With an equally pleased chuckle, Pantalone opens his eyes and puts his glasses back on. He doesn't comment yet, but he truly falls silent after a few blinks, with his hand raised up to his lips but never quite touching them. For a long minute, he beholds.
Dottore worries at first, but then the man smiles, and he smiles, too, - he knows he did a good job adorning the outer corners of his partner's eyes with small stars, filling the space between them and the hairline, horizontally, with intricate floral and herbal ornaments, with a single downward chain of dots and crystals on the right side, matching his glasses' handles. He knows they do not resemble childish doodles, for he was not wary of using bold lines and shadows in addition to subtlest ones. He knows, and his deeply buried A-student neurosis squeals in joy - but can he help doing good?
Oh, godless sky, what is he turning into?..
"Delightful."
Dottore is glad he isn't wearing heels now, lest he topple over on noodle legs with instant cerebellar ataxia.
With a sly glint in his eyes, Pantalone beckons him to come closer, and come closer he does, his hands already fidgeting with the sleeve of the dressing gown his host gave him. But there is no menace in Pantalone's subtle smile, just the same slow, deliberate observation from afar - not quite adoration, but fond interest, that is the name for it.
"You did a wonderful job. I sure hope it brought you as much pleasure as it did me." He reaches forward an elegant hand, and Dottore can't bring himself to flinch.
"May I...?" Pantalone asks, which is considerate of him and safer for his phalanges. He has found out in practice that the doctor bites. Now, he only smiles. "I want to return the favor."
Now that is where Dottore freezes up and leans back, his shoulders raised in a guarded and confused small motion. He looks at his partner's hand a bit like a cat at a zucchini. Then, he forces himself to lower his shoulders, to breathe, to let out a small huff.
"I'm afraid, no, my dear colleague." He crosses his arms over his chest and lets out a low chuckle. "There is a reason I wear this mask at all times."
Not exactly impressed - why would he be? This is no new information - Pantalone tilts his head. "A reason- well, now there is a reason for you to take it off. Do not worry, my precious one, I will not... take advantage of your vulnerability."
The word "vulnerability" makes Dottore scoff in contempt. "It is not that," he says, his voice low and dark as always, but lacking certainty.
"...You will not like what you see," he adds after a pause. Nobody can tell, but he is gazing down. "To put it lightly. You will regret letting such a thing inside your home, which I am surprised you haven't already."
But Pantalone's reaction is not at all what he expected - no, he got it all wrong! just the opposite! - his expression softens with understanding and that same benevolence, and stubbornly he reaches his hand to him, just like a child sticking fingers into coffee grinder thinking it's a magic machine.
"You could never-"
"Pantalone, hands off," the doctor commands, though without true malice. Mere everyday irritation. He leans back, staying though still well within reach if anyone is so adamant on crossing his boundaries.
He secures his mask by holding it in place, wary of it being snatched. But instead, Pantalone takes his other hand in his.
"Is it really that bad?" he asks with a chuckle, only to conceal from himself first and foremost the newfound gentleness of his voice. "You couldn't have aged this awfully in less than a decade. The second-oldest segment looks fine as ever."
"Besides, - and perhaps I should have said it first," he adds upon receiving no reply from Dottore, "nothing about you can disgust me. I have seen you dig through a corpse's guts."
Dottore chuckles at the memory involuntarily - indeed, that was how Pantalone learned that while he can walk into the lab without knocking if he so desires, he does not desire so. ...It was an old corpse.
"And yet, I am still inviting you over, am I not? After what-"
Dottore interrupts him with a sigh. "Bring antiemetics then. This will be worse."
He dips his head in anticipation of a fiasco, and so, he doesn't see the pained look that crosses Pantalone's face.
But the Ninth gets what he wants. Always. Be it by means of power, or, a much rarer instance, by means of generous patience and soothing knuckle rubs with his thumb. He tries to catch Dottore's gaze - but it is not easy when his mask has one-way shades, so black they are impenetrable. He can't tell if he succeeds, but he can tell that his guest goes noticeably quieter.
"Now, now," he soothes with an airy laugh, "there is no reason for us two equally ugly old men to feel embarassed before each other."
Dottore raises his head, and he doesn't visibly emote, but Pantalone can guess that he is giving him an "are you kidding me?" look. Before he can proceed with his comforts, the doctor grabs his mask, determined to throw it off, - oh, but he stops. He wavers.
"No. No, wait a minute. Hear me out," Dottore mutters with a sigh. "I do not want it to be a surprise. Don't- I want you to know what you're about to see."
With a hint of uncertainty, Pantalone nods. "A wonderful precaution if you so wish. Tell me, then, please, do."
"I have polycoria," the man replies, leaning back in his chair, as if put at ease by a single medical term. "It is not a curse, nor possession. Just watch my eyes, and you will understand what I mean - but do not get scared now. You asked for this.
...Ah, and also scars. Bad ones. I do not possess a transmittable skin disease - these are just scars."
With a look a bit saddened, Pantalone makes a difficult decision to not say what is on his mind, or it may paint him in an unflattering, disgustingly caring light.
"I will take that as a 'yes'," Dottore hums, his smugness returning to him for the first time since awakening. "Very well then." He begins slowly pulling at the far corners of his mask. ...Does he really glue it to the skin like a prosthesis?
Pantalone watches with a strange thing stirring in his chest, heartbreak and anticipation and gentleness and disappointment. It worsens when Dottore almost sneers, "This is what you get, my curious darling, for being so stubborn and not learning your lessons."
And Pantalone waits.
Very soon, the mask is off. A small huff leaves the doctor's lips. He brushes a disobedient stray hair from his face and looks up, his expression...
His expression. Pantalone can see it: see the way his lip curves up in disgust but also how his brows furrow to conceal a pained gaze. Oh, he has lovely brows. How he blinks at the bright light, and how his all three pupils contract against the red of the irises. No, when Pantalone looks closer, he can see a fourth one. Just a tiny baby dot. This brings a smile to his face. Dottore rolls his eyes.
"How often do you do it behind that mask, again?" he chuckles, and reaches out a hand to caress his cheek and the faded, pale scar there.
Upon being touched, Dottore genuinely freezes. His eyes find Pantalone's, screaming of more fear than surprise, less a warning than panic. He shrinks, until there is a distance between their skin.
"What is wrong with you..." Pantalone can hear him muttering. "I... did not expect a man of your status to have such perverted aesthetic taste."
He talked about antiemetics, talked about scaring people, but if anybody looks like they are about to get sick with anxiety, it is him. Pantalone can't let that happen. So he risks it: risks his precious phalanges and meets Dottore's cheek with his hand once again. This time, the doctor outright flinches.
But Pantalone doesn't. His fingertips kiss the dark, round scars under the doctor's right eye, on his forehead; bless the delightful bridge of his aquiline nose, - by then Dottore focuses his eyes on that hand and blinks rapidly, confused, brought back to the present moment. Pantalone boops the tip of his nose and finally, runs his thumb along the big scar that nearly reaches the man's eye and surely ruins one of his beautiful eyebrows. He finishes by giving in to the temptation to just barely touch the long, long eyelashes. Dottore's bewildered blink grants his fingerpad a butterfly kiss.
At least he calms down. At most...
"Why are you not repulsed?" A slow, slow utterance. Eyes glinting with unadmitted old grief.
"Pantalone? What does any of this mean?.. W-why?.."
Oh archons, he really was about to cry.
"Dear...-"
"Am I just some circus freak you brought here for entertainment!?"
Goodness.
He flinched away. He lashed out, angry and heartbroken tears filling his eyes and falling unadmitted, unaccepted, disowned. "Why is it, I thought, just two of us here?.. You planned to test the waters? See how- how laughable I was? What is the meaning of- Why y- Why, Pantalone! What's with the hug!? Quit this!"
And Pantalone only embraced him more securely, and ran his fingers through the man's freshly washed, soft curls. While Dottore weakly fought back, trying not to touch his partner beyond minimal necessity so as not to taint him, he held him closer with gentle force. Eventually, Dottore submitted to his shushes and warm touch.
"You're a pervert, Pantalone," he scoffed as he surrendered.
Slowly rubbing his scalp and playing with his hair in a deliberate manner, the man clarified, "A pervert... for liking you?"
Dottore's breath hitched in his throat.
"Yes. Yes, exactly. ...I don't want to-"
His tears came flooding once again. From then on, he rambled and babbled,
"I don't want to invite you to my laboratory anymore, b- because I... don't want to taint you. Don't want you to see what twisted things are born and killed there. Pantalone," he addressed, "oh- Pantalone, I call you that because I merely can't bear to place your- your beautiful name on my worthless tongue."
A small gasp escaped Pantalone's lips, and his arms sought to further consume the man, pull him into the matter of his being.
"Pantalone... I can't touch you, I- write reports to you with gloved hands. Your face... I do not deserve to even behold it, let alone... I... look hideous. Not that I care for looks-" The lamenting got interrupted by a shudder and a sob. "Not that I care for looks... But people do."
A sudden guess was voiced as soon as it sparked in Pantalone's mind. "Did people give you these scars for..." Not without a hint of threat.
Dottore shook his head. "No, they did that because I'm an asshole. Was an asshole even back then. Er, those ones are from a pitchfork. ...I don't agree with these people, so I need not their validation... of my person. However," he remarked in a steadier voice,
"I would hate to lose you to disapproval."
He lifted his head, and exhausted eyes with dark circles and a pleading gaze met Pantalone's gentle yet perceptive ones. Elegant fingers, without stopping, slowly ran through unmatched blue curls. In his head, Pantalone did a little translation. Then, he gave a small peck to his partner's hairline, and said, in part taking advantage of Dottore being rendered speechless and unable to interrupt,
"I like you. You need not worry, I do. ...Mm? That is it."
Because translated from Dottore to human, "I would hate to lose you to disapproval" simply meant something akin to "I hope you like me". So what is admitting he did?
Pantalone waited for a response, but perhaps, he noted with a subtle smile, the effects would take a while to wear off. To hear his beloved doctor speak again, he would have to give him a good minute, almost like pathetic vision bearers need to for their blessings to recover energy for an attack.
And he would wait. It's not like any of them were running out of time. The morning shone gently, and the year had begun delightfully. In the much missed comfort of his home, Pantalone was ready to wait forever.
Finally, Dottore unfroze and whispered, with much slowness, "What... did you just do?"
That elicited a series of chuckles from Pantalone, who was overjoyed with his influence. "It is called a forehead kiss," he couldn't help teasing. The doctor rolled his eyes.
"A common gesture of endearment here in Snezhnaya," he continued. "To not mention the kisses on th-"
"Neither of us are Snezhnayan," Dottore grunted.
"I can have a little bit of appropriation as a treat, can't I?" Pantalone laughed. He had not released his partner, and now, he tightened his hold on the doctor's body, bringing him even closer. He took his glasses off. Oh, Dottore was so clueless to not know what that entailed. Archons, he was perfect.
Before he could utter that stupid "Do you not wish to see me after all?", Pantalone brought their lips together, his hand on the back of Dottore's head guiding the clearly shaken man right where he wanted him. The doctor froze, nearly grasping onto him for dear life. Yet Pantalone's lips only barely opened into his before his smile grew wider, and their teeth met with a quiet clack, and then he withdrew helplessly giggling.
On Dottore's face glared confusion and appallement, though now for the reason of a very strange longing to not part with the man in front of him. To... continue. He blinked fast. With his big, blueish-white eyelashes. And his shark teeth visible slightly through the small window of his parted lips.
The sight made Pantalone feel in his early 20's again, and want to kiss the clueless man all over his precious face. But he had to stop laughing first. And not topple over in his chair.
"Was this your first kiss? My sincere apologies," he spoke, hoping that speech would even out his breathing. It did.
Dottore, on the other hand, gasped softly. He paused. He mulled it over. "...No."
Would be great to not have one's first kiss ruined like this, but Pantalone's observant eyes would not, for the love of Her Majesty, believe that furtive "...no". He took a deep breath, apoogized again, to which the doctor muttered, "No need to, it's quite okay."
He placed his hand on the side of Dottore's face, and paused there, his mouth opening to ask if he wished to proceed after all. But Dottore gave him a couple small, quick nods, looking him in the eye. Pantalone took another deep breath and nodded too. "Right. I... appreciate your consent."
Perhaps the doctor's scars were not, but the unkissed teenage awkwardness was, in fact, transmittable.
He leaned in for another attempt, and Dottore mirrored the action, though stopped after moving by an inch. No worry, Pantalone closed the distance, and first, pressed a small peck to the surface of his lips, just like he did with a forehead kiss.
He pulled back and looked Dottore in the eye. "I like you."
Only then, - slowly, savoring the learning curve as the finest thing in life - he cued his dearest to part his chapped, dry and bitten lips, and kissed them with delight.
"I like you," he snuck in between the short moments of contact. "I find you... quite a precious beauty... and an unmatched person... I like you... and..."
And with a sweet sigh, he gave in to Dottore's radiating urgency and finally gave him a longer, tender kiss. Not that Dottore knew how to receive it. Not that he seemed to learn as they went. Not that he barely even responded, but oh, that just meant a longer path ahead for the future. A lovely, lovely investment. Pantalone could barely contain a satisfied purr.
"...and seeing your adorable face was the best thing that could have happened to me on New Year's morning," he finished once he pulled back.
Dottore fell quiet, humbled.
"I wonder, though... Was this your second kiss, now?" Pantalone hummed with a sly smile and glimmers of mirth in his eyes. He took in the silence that followed, and relished in the sight of his dearest as shy as a schoolboy who was getting scolded.
"...Yes," he mumbled.
"Darling, after that pause, I did not need your verbal confirmation."
Dottore crumbled, wincing and whispering barely audible curses. He loosely covered his mouth in absolute astonishment. And when his own fingers brushed against his lips, - just when Pantalone thought he couldn't get any better - suddenly flinched and touched his lower lip, eyes wide in disbelief and marvelling at the lingering sensations at the point of impact.
The cogs in his head turned at their highest speed to digest what had just happened. Had Pantalone just snuck some poison into his mouth, was that the plan? If not, why the lightheadedness? If he was so bad at kissing, why the unfathomable desire to do it again, to do the very thing he was bound to embarass himself by? Was the worst happening?
Dottore couldn't quite decide if poisoning or... affection was that worst thing he thought about.
And Pantalone was smiling. Not really helpful at figuring out his intention.
"...You surely are in a good mood today," the doctor muttered after what felt like hours, his usual hint of sarcasm returning.
Pantalone chuckled at that. "It's good to see you recover. Couldn't have the smartest man in Teyvat rendered speechless and silly, now, could we? Not in the current political situation."
To which Dottore just sighed, closed his eyes and let his shoulders drop down. Pantalone made a mental note to himself that his next holiday gift to his partner should be a journal. This man needed to write out quite a few things.
He picked up Dottore's mask in one hand, perched his chin on the other, and drummed his fingers on the backside of the mask as he observed the intricate but annoying accessory. "Why did you make your other segments so... bland? Like mass-production dolls."
Subtle as he was trying to be, Pantalone wrinkled his nose a bit. "They do not look quite like you. If you were trying to have them pass as you, then..."
Without opening his eyes, Dottore scoffed, nonetheless grateful for a distraction. "I suppose, at my age - my psychological age - one should try to accept a few things about one's appearance." He paused. "I'm the only one unaltered, save for the long-dead first prototypes."
Pantalone tilted his head. How and why the segments worked remained a mystery to himself, which though wasn't due to their mechanics too difficult to grasp, for a man of his intelligence, at least; no, rather, he was wary of showing too much interest. Basic observations yielded that: there were many Dottores, slightly different, they argued, they had a way of impacting each other long-distance, they cost a ton of Mora to create - and just that.
What he could understand now, and what was most necessary, was that this Dottore in front of him was the way his most original childhood self would look like if he grew up without alterations. And that was enough to cherish him limitlessly. That Pantalone did, reaching out once again and caressing the side of his face.
"I find this appearance most bewitching," he purred. "You should take this mask off more often - respectfully. You have lovely eyes... And such lovely nose, too."
"Are you so adamant on making me blush?" the doctor asked calmly, leaning into the touch. He was taking it well.
Pantalone raised an eyebrow, nonetheless. "You are blushing?"
He nodded into his hand. Slowly, it dawned on Pantalone that his skin was darker than the rest of the segments' he had seen, that was why the subtlest blush went unnoticed. Ah, right, he came from Sumeru. It was easy to forget. A pang of much familiar pain pierced Pantalone's heart when he recalled his own ardent disgust for his once tanned skin, which betrayed so starkly his then low social rank. He had swore to never walk out in the sun again, and Snezhnayan climate made it too easy. ...To think he had forgotten how to see vigor and affection on complexion same as once his own.
All the more reason to pour that aching tenderness into another kiss on the cheek.
"Pantalone, you're greedy," Dottore hummed and rolled his eyes, leaning back just slightly.
"Is this new?" He mustered a helpless, pained smile.
The doctor seemed to mull it over for a while. He sighed. "At least you could state clearly what you want with me. ...What all of this means."
Pantalone paused and pulled away just enough to get a good view of his both eyes. He blinked rapidly. "Excuse me?"
"Well..." Falling shy again, Dottore tugged at his own sleeve. "If your advances are purely platonic, or rooted in your cultural background, or... if perhaps, if I would not offend you with the very notion, you are planning to... t-to date me?"
The room fell silent for a good, long minute. Ignoring gracefulness, Pantalone rested, or better said, gently slammed his head on the dressing table.
"I have been courting you for four years and a half."
He should have known this would happen.
***
[Some time later]
"So you mean... "Dottie" has been a term of endearment all this time!?"
"What did you think it was?"
"I don't know, I thought you were just insulting me for no reason."
"..."
"..."
"...for no reason?"