Chapter Text
(ONE.)
Theta Sigma showed up halfway through freshman year, on a Tuesday. Koschei remembers, because Tuesday is the only day the cafeteria serves chips.
A skinny streak of nothing with a head like a mop, all angles and limbs akimbo, he strolled into the lunchroom like he owned the place. He was so green he didn’t even have his uniform yet, in battered plimsolls and rumpled clothes instead. He’d surveyed the room, and Koschei had watched — hell, everybody watched, because a new boy at Prydonian Academy was something to take note of — and when his gaze swept Koschei’s direction, they’d made eye contact.
Just like that, gravity kicked in.
The skinny new boy sat down in front of Koschei, plucked a few chips off his plate and said, “Hey, I’m Theta. Not gonna finish these, are you?”
Both of them at the Academy on scholarship, neither of them fits in with the toffs, but they fit perfectly with each other. By junior year, Koschei doesn’t even bother trying to keep any of his own chips on Tuesdays anymore, he just automatically shovels them onto Theta’s plate and nicks Theta’s fish fingers in exchange, neither of them batting an eye.
But this Tuesday, there won’t be chips or fish fingers or arguing over who’s going to finish the custard, because they aren’t going to be in the cafeteria. It’s Koschei’s idea, although Theta actually does it — pulls the fire alarm just before lunch hour, because it means they have a while before they’re reported truant to Headmaster Rassilon. Getting off-property is a bit dodgy, though.
The wailing alarm flushes everyone out into the main courtyard, where they have to wait until the fire brigade has cleared the building. Everyone’s still milling around when Theta and Koschei slip behind the building, hop the fence, and take off.
“No way we’re coming back before dinner,” Theta says, turning around to walk backward in front of Koschei on the sidewalk. He’s waving his hands as he talks, bouncing on his toes, every line of his body quivering with excitement. “How far do you suppose we could get? Train station’s not far, I figure we might make it to Liverpool before they even call the coppers and report us missing!”
Koschei’s hands are crammed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched at little. He squints at his friend. “Focus, Theete.”
“Right, right, ‘course, I’m just saying, it’d be easier than you think, slipping away. Making a clean escape. Scarpering off. Doing a bunk. Did you know the Yanks call it ‘going on the lam’? I’m very well-versed in American slang. We could hop a plane, be in New York before tomorrow. They’d think we were natives! ”
Theta’s gob is like a perpetual motion machine; if Koschei doesn’t step in, it’s going to keep going forever. “We’d have to find another shop that sells the Tyler I want, and I don’t feel like putting in the leg work. So let’s just stick to London today, shall we?”
Theta spins around and falls into step beside Koschei, shoving his hands into his pockets and unconsciously mimicking his posture. “The James Tyler factory is in California. We could hop a plane to LA instead.”
“You’ve got your money?” he asks, fist balling around the carefully rolled stack of bank notes inside his pocket.
“Everything’s under control, Kosch” he replies with a smirk, mischievous glint in his eye.
They’re in Headmaster Rassilon’s office at least once a week, and the faculty has pinned Koschei as the mastermind of the outfit, which is true to an extent — any of their escapades that involve intricate planning and the arrangement of everything like cogs in a clock usually can be chalked up to his plotting. Theta is trouble of a different kind. He might not plan in advance like Koschei does, he might not think as far ahead, but given an inch of freedom and a whim, Theta’ll drag them both straight into a mess any day, leaving them to muddle through.
The shop’s called The Guitar Cellar, and they’ve never actually been inside. They don’t get much time off-campus, and when they do manage to slip away — late at night, after the dorms are quiet and everyone’s asleep — the shop’s closed. They walk the dark, empty streets, making their way here, at least once every other week for the last few months. They stand on the pavement and stare into the window at the guitars on display, arranged on hooks and glinting in the security lights.
It’s a black alder Tyler, with creamy mother-of-pearl accents, and Koschei can feel it in his hands even though he’s never actually touched it. Theta keeps telling him he ought to save up for a drum set, percussion is more his speed, and maybe he’s right, but Koschei hasn’t stopped thinking about that Tyler since he first clapped eyes on it.
A bell over the door dings when they walk in, and the shop owner squints at them. Two kids at midday, in school uniforms, obviously already breaking rules, and he’s none too pleased to see them.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Koschei says, putting on his most winning smile. And it is the one that wins everyone over — hypnotic, Theta calls it, as though that’s supposed to mean something. “I’m the president of the Music Appreciation Society at Prydonian Academy, and Headmaster Rassilon has sent us over here because we’re in the process of acquiring instruments for our collection. This collection will be quite extensive, but we’re out to check out a few shops today, to purchase a few for the music professor to take a look at. Whichever he likes, he’s going to be back around in a week to pick up at least half a dozen more.”
“Just buying one today,” Theta interjects from behind him. Koschei uses every ounce of his will to keep from rolling his eyes, keeps the smile natural and easy on his face.
“That’s right, just one.” This was most definitely not the plan. But then again, Theta never seems to stick with the plan. Koschei swears he’s gonna need blood pressure medication before they graduate.
Koschei spends the next thirty minutes charming the shopkeeper — easy, really. He’s good with people, winning them over and getting them to do what he wants. It’s how he’s manipulated a dozen toffs at the Academy to buy into his poker nights, games played at two in the morning in the boiler room. Counting cards, winning just enough — not so much he attracts attention and ire, just enough to keep a steady profit coming in, until he had the funds for the guitar.
He’s nearly a hundred pounds short for the Tyler he wants, but he’s not worried.
Theta’s walking up and down the aisles of the store, and after a bit he creeps up behind Koschei. “I’ll just pop outside and wait till you’re done.”
Koschei waves him away, still engrossed in conversation with the shop owner.
Fifteen minutes later, Koschei walks out of the store with his black alder Tyler in a brand new case, with a dozen extra picks and a small amp thrown in for free, in exchange for a promise to speak well of The Guitar Cellar to the music professor.
Theta is waiting around the corner at the end of the block, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a blue Les Paul hanging off his back.
Koschei comes to a stop, gaping at him. “You nicked that.” It’s an accusation and an expression of admiration, all at the same time.
Theta snatches the cigarette from his lips and turns around with a flourish, and Koschei gets a good look at it — it’s an antique, hard-used, three strings missing. The dials look busted.
“Sexy, isn’t it?” Theta says, grinning at him over his shoulder.
“Left me to the heavy lifting, as usual,” Koschei retorts, holding up the amp. “Can’t play that thing properly without one of these, can you? You’d be lost without me.”
Theta turns back around, taking a drag off the cigarette before handing it to him. Koschei pulls in a long huff, his cheeks hollowing out, and the tip of the cigarette flares bright red.
Theta grins at him, all teeth and round cheeks. “‘Course I’d be lost without you, Kosch.”
They pull supper kitchen duty for skipping class, and after all the dishes are washed, they retreat to their room and stay up into the small hours of the night, working out the chords to “All Along the Watchtower.”
(TWO.)
They’ve only had the guitars for a few weeks when Theta’s cornered by the actual music professor.
“I hear you boys play a little guitar,” the professor says and Theta hesitantly nods before thinking better of it. “Well, the band’s dropped out for next week’s dance and my classes will be out at a competition. Can you two fill in?”
Theta’s nod this time is enthusiastic and by the time he finds Koschei, he feels like shouting to the ceiling: they have a gig. They have a gig.
Koschei’s more practical about it – this could be the start of their music careers. Never mind that what they’re doing can barely even be called “music,” this is the start.
“We’ll need to call ourselves something,” Koschei says. “And we’ll need stage names. We have to show we’re serious about this.”
They lob names back and forth all the way up until the day before the dance – Chips on Tuesday, Rassilon’s Pants, Sonic Lasers. There are rumors flying all over school about who’s actually playing because the fliers have changed so many times.
Their latest attempt, using their initials – KTS – is almost immediately shot down by Romana. “Katie’s? Katie’s what? Who’s Katie?”
It’s late at night, but Koschei leaves the dorm with a growl, tearing down every single KTS flier so that they’ve all disappeared before classes the next morning. It’s a Friday, the day of the dance, and they’re still nameless.
There’s barely any room in Theta’s (not insignificant, if he’s honest) brain for lessons and he spends most of them doodling band names on his notebooks. He skivs off the last class to do a little bit more surgery on Sexy – the guitar is almost perfect, he just has one or two things left, really. He’s not just tinkering, it’s all absolutely necessary, despite what Koschei implies.
Theta’s been back in the dorm for a little while and he’s in the middle of tightening up the strings, when Koschei comes through their door, all tense, rushed movements, his shoulders squared.
“Names now, Theta.” There’s an edge to his voice that’s relatively new, one that seemed to coincide with the realization that this really could be the start of something. Or the realization that Koschei seems to desperately want it to be.
Theta moves his guitar aside, giving it a small stroke down the neck as he lays it on his bed.
“Band names,” Theta says, rolling the words around. “Band. Names. Band names. Band names.”
Koschei is still standing, muscles in his jaw working, and this is how he gets when they have an important exam or Romana’s really getting to him or the administration is threatening his scholarship.
“Enough!” he shouts, and Theta looks up, startled. “If you’re not going to take band names seriously, at least think up a decent stage name!”
Koschei seems to realize he’s gone too far and he softens, shuffling over to where Theta is sitting on the bed and reaching out a hand to pluck at the guitar lying next to him.
“How’s surgery going? Will the patient live to see tonight’s show?”
Theta tilts his head, trying to decide if another outburst is brewing, but Koschei seems to have calmed himself down.
“Oh, of course,” Theta says. “Doctor like me? The prognosis is good.”
And there it is.
Theta feels it in his gut, feels it in the hair at the back of his neck, Doctor. He’s fixed up his guitar and he’s going to make music with it, the kind of music that fixes up people.
“Call me that,” he says, soft enough that Koschei leans in closer.
“Call you what?”
“Doctor.”
Koschei pulls back again and Theta feels like he’s looking right through him, like he’s seeing something in him that Theta himself doesn’t even know is there.
“Okay,” Koschei finally says. “But Doctor what? Doctor Theta?”
He shakes his head. “Just Doctor, the Doctor.”
Koschei nods. “Got it, Doctor.”
They’re silent for a moment, and Theta – no, the Doctor, picks his guitar back up, strumming absentmindedly at the strings a few times before speaking, “How about you? What would you like to hear audiences chanting, when we take the world by storm?”
Koschei blinks, his face impassive for a moment. “Master. I want them to call me Master.”
The Doctor laughs, but shrugs. “Got it, Master.”
If the teeth-baring grin he gets in response seems unsettling, the Doctor blames it on nerves.
They spread the word around at dinner, that it’s the Doctor and the Master that will be taking the stage tonight, and by the time they’re back in the dorms and changed out of their uniforms, it’s time to leave for the gig.
The Doctor – and that’s it, he’s already thinking of himself as the Doctor, liking how it wraps around him and fits him in a way Theta Sigma never quite did – can barely stand still. They have a band, he’s in a band, with his best mate, and an audience is waiting. It feels significant, like a coming of age, like he’s staring into his future and trying to decide whether to jump, like the universe wants to see what he’ll do.
It also, it has to be said, feels hot.
They’re in the auditorium, tucked up behind the thick velvet curtains they set up for school plays, and it wouldn’t be so bad if the Doctor could just get some personal space, but the Master’s crowding him. He keeps checking the Doctor’s fingers on the strings, like these past few weeks haven’t handily identified which of the two of them is more naturally gifted.
They’re just playing a bunch of covers, with a backing track cobbled together late one night as they poured over their meager album collection. They don’t know a lot of songs yet, but the 12 they picked, they know by heart – plucking out notes and practicing chord changes together late into the night.
They’d nicked a beer earlier, smuggling it out of the teachers’ quarters with winning smiles and easy strides, and they’d been passing it back and forth for the last 15 minutes, ignoring how it had gotten warm and flat. It’s the beer the Doctor smells now, on the Master’s breath and mixing with the firework scent the Doctor always associates with him. It’s a combination that makes him feel happier than he has in a long time, which is saying something.
It’s actually been a pretty great few weeks, these ones since they got their guitars. Minus the tension of the band name situation, they’d barely had a row between them. As the Master’s fingers grip the Doctor’s, repositioning them for the hundredth time – incorrectly repositioning them – there’s a row spoiling though.
The Doctor turns his head to tell him to shove off, that they’ve practiced and practiced and nothing they could do in these last few minutes is going to matter at all, but the words tangle in his throat. The Master’s face is right in front of his and they’ve been this close plenty of times, working on school projects, analyzing liner notes, but it’s never felt like this.
It’s never felt so intense or so focused, it’s never felt like he something he wanted to push at.
It’s never felt like something he wanted to chase.
In a flood of hormones and foolish bravery, he leans forward and touches his mouth to the Master’s.
There’s a moment where the Master doesn’t respond and the Doctor’s frozen, mind breaking free to analyze the taste on his lips, the beer and cigarettes, the roasted potatoes from dinner, and then he feels the pressure returned as the Master kisses him back.
There’d been rumors for as long as they’d been friends, the way they were inseparable, always opting to room together or pairing off for assignments, but this – this is something entirely new.
The Doctor’s snogging roster isn’t very long, limited to a few frantic kisses under the bleachers with girls that barely even speak to him anymore, and he knows that any comparisons his brain is flipping through don’t mean very much. But still, as he parts his lips and slips his tongue into the Master’s mouth, it’s a real number one with a bullet situation.
The Master’s hands are suddenly curling into his hips, aggression and heat and the guitar’s still between them, which is just as well because the control he has over his body is limited on a good day and right now, with the adrenaline of the show looming and the way this suddenly feels like it was inevitable, any meaningful friction is going to get him hard.
He’s half there now anyway and as the Master bites down on his lower lip one moment and roughly runs his tongue across the spot the next, the circuit completes and he’s straining against his jeans.
He moves his hand to the back of the Master’s head, fingers pulling, tugging, yanking at his hair and it’s so different, the planes and angles of his best friend, the guitar forcing back into him as the Master claws at his shirt trying to pull them closer to each other.
There’s a wall just behind them and he wants to back them up into it, wants to press or be pressed against it, but a voice crackles to life over the speakers and they’re being introduced to their classmates.
They separate in a flash, pupils blown wide and chests heaving with the effort it’s taking to breath.
The Doctor wants to say something, wants to talk about what just happened and, maybe, whether they can do it again, but the Master’s shoving him past the curtain and onto the stage.
He’s squinting into the lights a moment later and he sees the Master reach out a hand to cover the microphone before leaning in to speak in the Doctor’s ear.
“That’s a pre-show ritual now, right?”
Something spreads in the Doctor’s chest, like dropping ink into water, and he nods, trying for a smooth grin, but knowing he’s landed somewhere around goofy smile instead.
The Master dashes away for a second, starting the backing track, and when he returns, he’s grabbed his guitar.
The gig isn’t perfect, there’s more than a few mistakes spread between the two of them, but when it’s over, the audience is clapping anyway and the Doctor chances a glance at the Master. He’s absorbed in the cheering, shoulders back, taking it all in, and he looks – he looks different. More confident, older, different.
The Doctor feels different himself, like he faced down a vortex – he played music, on a stage, in front of people, and it was brilliant.
It’s a feeling he’s going to run toward forever.