He wakes up and immediately, something is wrong.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Prompt : Physical
The Doctor holds out his hand and for a long moment, the Master honestly does not know what to do. He looks up to those pale eyes and for a moment, he thinks about sneering at him. But he remembers that even when he refused to take his hand, the last time, he could do no such thing.
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Prompt : Coldness
It was his most attractive feature, at this juncture. A bit unfortunate; he had been a handsome man, before. Different bodies, bodies that had been his own; his appearance harsh and severe and angular, and all those things that a man of cold disposition would be like to own. He remembers it so well. He remembers what it felt like, what it was, being handsome.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
Prompt : Intensive
Something about war had broken this man. He hates seeing it, sometimes – it is so strange to say that it was war that helped make him better. It is sad to say that he was a warrior going in, a softer man coming out.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
Prompt : Swoon
He was not exactly one for romantics, not in the sense that most people thought of it, anyway.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
Prompt : Betrothal
It was hardly official, by any means. He had promised him once to always be with him, and when he had first said it, it had been the sort of thing a careless child would say. It was the thing an adolescent who had little to no idea of life, much less a lifetime, much less infinite numbers of them, could ever comprehend.
But once, he had been called Koschei, and once, he had promised another person these things that he did not yet understand.
Funny what happens. They had gotten close and they had gotten to love each other to the point that they were quick to forgive and easy to overlook everything that had started to go wrong. The insanity turned him romantic. His reservation died down around this boy and his words became so open and honest that what had started as a mindless adolescent devotion took a turn for a tender, intimate connection.
He promised him forever. He used words that had more nuances than most languages had characters. He promised him love, possession, submission, dedication, always – forever. And he had called him mine. My Theta. My love.
Just a few years prior he had made fun of marriage. It was a foreign tradition, a ceremony that owned too much levity to be taken seriously. He had scoffed at the scripted words each person was meant to say, and then and there, he had turned around and made a vow as it should be, individualized and honest and entirely possible.
Promise to stay with you. Promise to hold you and to hold myself. Swear to let you in and to bring myself out to meet you. Swear to go with you, or to wait for you. Mostly I promise I will be the one who meets you, when you leave to come back. I will always wait for you.
And things twisted so much from there.
They were older now, pursuing higher studies, starting work in the assistant and studying sort of way. And their relationship got closer and simultaneously got strained. He was getting worse. His head pounded sometimes and sometimes, his lover would cry after their lovemaking. And he would kiss the places where nails had come to tear at skin, or where hands had been held high over head and strained too hard. He apologized and he kissed him and it was always so tender, afterward, that they could pretend nothing was wrong.
Theta is off more and more, and for longer, to study or to do the things that he does, that he is becoming more and more secretive about. One night after a few days not seeing each other except in the middle of the night, when one or the other crawled in bed with their partner, and nearly two weeks without connecting bodies, Koschei tells Theta that he loves him, and he renews his vows.
They make love and it is tender, and perfect. They pull away shuddering and he kisses Theta’s cheeks, and he does not know why his partner is shaking so terribly.
Theta is gone the next morning and he does not come back that day.
Nor the day after.
Nor the day after that.
And he manages to keep himself afloat, for a while. He gets more work and more studying done than ever, constantly keeping his mind busy to distract himself from the slight sound of drums, and from the loneliness he feels when he lies down to sleep.
Sometimes he even writes letters that he cannot send. They start off sweet, loving, hopeful.
By the end of the first year, they are quietly desperate.
Three years later he writes a last letter on a scrap of note that reads:
Dear Theta,
I love you. I need you.
Please come home.
And not long after this, he breaks from the waiting.
But once, he had been called Koschei, and once, he had promised another person these things that he did not yet understand.
Funny what happens. They had gotten close and they had gotten to love each other to the point that they were quick to forgive and easy to overlook everything that had started to go wrong. The insanity turned him romantic. His reservation died down around this boy and his words became so open and honest that what had started as a mindless adolescent devotion took a turn for a tender, intimate connection.
He promised him forever. He used words that had more nuances than most languages had characters. He promised him love, possession, submission, dedication, always – forever. And he had called him mine. My Theta. My love.
Just a few years prior he had made fun of marriage. It was a foreign tradition, a ceremony that owned too much levity to be taken seriously. He had scoffed at the scripted words each person was meant to say, and then and there, he had turned around and made a vow as it should be, individualized and honest and entirely possible.
Promise to stay with you. Promise to hold you and to hold myself. Swear to let you in and to bring myself out to meet you. Swear to go with you, or to wait for you. Mostly I promise I will be the one who meets you, when you leave to come back. I will always wait for you.
And things twisted so much from there.
They were older now, pursuing higher studies, starting work in the assistant and studying sort of way. And their relationship got closer and simultaneously got strained. He was getting worse. His head pounded sometimes and sometimes, his lover would cry after their lovemaking. And he would kiss the places where nails had come to tear at skin, or where hands had been held high over head and strained too hard. He apologized and he kissed him and it was always so tender, afterward, that they could pretend nothing was wrong.
Theta is off more and more, and for longer, to study or to do the things that he does, that he is becoming more and more secretive about. One night after a few days not seeing each other except in the middle of the night, when one or the other crawled in bed with their partner, and nearly two weeks without connecting bodies, Koschei tells Theta that he loves him, and he renews his vows.
They make love and it is tender, and perfect. They pull away shuddering and he kisses Theta’s cheeks, and he does not know why his partner is shaking so terribly.
Theta is gone the next morning and he does not come back that day.
Nor the day after.
Nor the day after that.
And he manages to keep himself afloat, for a while. He gets more work and more studying done than ever, constantly keeping his mind busy to distract himself from the slight sound of drums, and from the loneliness he feels when he lies down to sleep.
Sometimes he even writes letters that he cannot send. They start off sweet, loving, hopeful.
By the end of the first year, they are quietly desperate.
Three years later he writes a last letter on a scrap of note that reads:
Dear Theta,
I love you. I need you.
Please come home.
And not long after this, he breaks from the waiting.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Prompt : Draping
He looks up to the sky and he feels quiet inside. For a few precious moments he forgets about the people who have held him to this place and about the pain of living again, and the anger about all that had transpired. For a moment, he forgets about everything except the fact that the sky has stars, all of which are far away and none of which matter.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
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