you're beginning to write like him
Arghhhhhhhhhhh. I'm trying to put this up quickly before I lose my nerve - I'm between college and youth theatre right now, and really need to head out soon - but LJ hates me and is making me want to STAB MY HANDS OFF. So anyway, er, I accidentally wrote History Boys fic? (Lolwhat.)
Title: Proteus
Fandom: The History Boys
Pairing: Irwin/Dakin
Summary: "Uncomplicated, is that what you mean? Outgoing? Straight?"
A/N: Such huge, MASSIVE thanks go to moogle62 for help and encouragement and generally being MADE of awesome. ♥ Short-ish, but this is my first go at writing these characters so feedback would really be appreciated.
i.
When they were maybe fifteen years of age, Dakin had asked Posner if he believed in God, and it had seemed a reasonable question at the time. Posner was still young, somewhere on the fence between being Jewish as a way of life - choosing it as a path to follow - and just-sort-of-inheriting-it. He’d said, "Don’t know really. My parents do, don’t they? I guess it feels like the kind of thing I should try to carry on with."
Dakin - having inherited very little from his parents, aside from a chip on his shoulder and a somewhat voracious need for other people’s approval - was vaguely aware that Posner’s simple, easy attitude towards his own immortal soul made him a little jealous.
When they were seventeen, midway through the summer between Lower Sixth and Upper Sixth, Dakin - having at some point crossed the line between being a boy who wanted to find out the world and an almost-man who was convinced he already knew it - had chosen instead to ask Scripps why he believed in God.
"Do you want a logical argument," Scripps had asked, "Or two sides of A4, or... or a stack of quotations, or what?"
Dakin blinked. "Just an answer."
"I wish it were that simple," said Scripps. "I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not sure. I mean, why don’t you believe?"
A shrug. A finger between collar and skin, nonchalance down to a fine art.
Dakin said, "I just don’t."
ii.
One afternoon, when there’s rain hurling itself against the windows and Dakin’s trying to think of the right word for ‘a stalemate’ (because he’s still two hundred away from finishing this essay, and his brain is attempting to bow out), he ends up watching the curve of Irwin’s neck and wondering what would’ve happened if they’d met in a different place, different time. Different circumstances. If he’d been born a little earlier, would they have been at Oxford together? They might have wound up drinking in the same pub one night and gotten talking; they might have run into one another in the street, when one of them needed a light and the other one had it; they might have been introduced by mutual friends. Dakin wonders what it would have been like to meet Irwin as an equal and, most importantly of all, if he would still have been interested.
He has a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach that he would have been.
Dakin imagines introducing himself, impressing him, saying something witty and watching the blush creep across Irwin’s cheeks. He taps his pen lightly against the page, thinking of skin that pales beneath his fingertips and hot breath on his neck, and he gets so caught up in just imagining that he almost forgets the real Irwin is still in the room. It’s all he can do not to flinch when that quiet, thoughtful voice says, "Impasse?" about an inch away from his ear.
It sounds somehow pornographic.
"Thanks," says Dakin. "That’s the one."
iii.
One day, when he’s dying of the worst hangover any man has ever endured (and cursing whatever madman sent him to such a hellish place as Oxford, with alcohol so readily available to whoever might choose to seek it), Dakin glances up to see the boy from down the hall looking at him out of the corner of his eye. There’s a sickly late-morning light pooling on the floor by the window, and Dakin can’t remember exactly how he ended up in the communal kitchen, although possibly it has something to do with wanting a hot drink despite not really being able to move. He groans a little, affecting the role of un soldat blessé, and it makes the boy - whose name he’s only half-attempting to remember - smile.
"With your propensity for over-dramatics, you should have gone into the theatre."
Dakin mutters something that sounds like, "All dons think acting is a waste of time." But then there’s the familiar quiet thud of a cup of tea being placed in front of him, and the young man, whose name may-or-may-not be Matthew, slides into the seat across from him.
"Thanks," Dakin adds.
The boy nods almost shyly, and suddenly Dakin remembers him from the night before, and from other nights previously - because he’s the only one Dakin’s met so far that hasn’t brought a girl back or publicly made a fool of himself attempting to chat one up. Then Dakin’s mystery tea-bringer pushes his glasses up his nose in a way that reminds Dakin instantly and embarrassingly of Irwin. He feels angry at the way it makes his stomach knot, angry at the way that here, in this kitchen, on this Sunday morning, miles from home, Irwin still exerts some kind of power over him.
Because that isn’t right, is it, Dakin was the one with the power, with the influence: he always was.
He looks over the rim of the mug to study the curve of possibly-Matthew’s neck, the way he’s just slightly too focused on the book, his grip a little too tight, and Dakin thinks, I fucking could. If I wanted to.
Sometimes, if he’s honest with himself, Dakin has to admit that he just misses him. But then Dakin is never honest if he can help it, these days.
“So,” he says, with carefully pitched indifference. “What are you reading?”
And instantly, Matthew looks up.
~
Title: Proteus
Fandom: The History Boys
Pairing: Irwin/Dakin
Summary: "Uncomplicated, is that what you mean? Outgoing? Straight?"
A/N: Such huge, MASSIVE thanks go to moogle62 for help and encouragement and generally being MADE of awesome. ♥ Short-ish, but this is my first go at writing these characters so feedback would really be appreciated.
i.
When they were maybe fifteen years of age, Dakin had asked Posner if he believed in God, and it had seemed a reasonable question at the time. Posner was still young, somewhere on the fence between being Jewish as a way of life - choosing it as a path to follow - and just-sort-of-inheriting-it. He’d said, "Don’t know really. My parents do, don’t they? I guess it feels like the kind of thing I should try to carry on with."
Dakin - having inherited very little from his parents, aside from a chip on his shoulder and a somewhat voracious need for other people’s approval - was vaguely aware that Posner’s simple, easy attitude towards his own immortal soul made him a little jealous.
When they were seventeen, midway through the summer between Lower Sixth and Upper Sixth, Dakin - having at some point crossed the line between being a boy who wanted to find out the world and an almost-man who was convinced he already knew it - had chosen instead to ask Scripps why he believed in God.
"Do you want a logical argument," Scripps had asked, "Or two sides of A4, or... or a stack of quotations, or what?"
Dakin blinked. "Just an answer."
"I wish it were that simple," said Scripps. "I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not sure. I mean, why don’t you believe?"
A shrug. A finger between collar and skin, nonchalance down to a fine art.
Dakin said, "I just don’t."
ii.
One afternoon, when there’s rain hurling itself against the windows and Dakin’s trying to think of the right word for ‘a stalemate’ (because he’s still two hundred away from finishing this essay, and his brain is attempting to bow out), he ends up watching the curve of Irwin’s neck and wondering what would’ve happened if they’d met in a different place, different time. Different circumstances. If he’d been born a little earlier, would they have been at Oxford together? They might have wound up drinking in the same pub one night and gotten talking; they might have run into one another in the street, when one of them needed a light and the other one had it; they might have been introduced by mutual friends. Dakin wonders what it would have been like to meet Irwin as an equal and, most importantly of all, if he would still have been interested.
He has a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach that he would have been.
Dakin imagines introducing himself, impressing him, saying something witty and watching the blush creep across Irwin’s cheeks. He taps his pen lightly against the page, thinking of skin that pales beneath his fingertips and hot breath on his neck, and he gets so caught up in just imagining that he almost forgets the real Irwin is still in the room. It’s all he can do not to flinch when that quiet, thoughtful voice says, "Impasse?" about an inch away from his ear.
It sounds somehow pornographic.
"Thanks," says Dakin. "That’s the one."
iii.
One day, when he’s dying of the worst hangover any man has ever endured (and cursing whatever madman sent him to such a hellish place as Oxford, with alcohol so readily available to whoever might choose to seek it), Dakin glances up to see the boy from down the hall looking at him out of the corner of his eye. There’s a sickly late-morning light pooling on the floor by the window, and Dakin can’t remember exactly how he ended up in the communal kitchen, although possibly it has something to do with wanting a hot drink despite not really being able to move. He groans a little, affecting the role of un soldat blessé, and it makes the boy - whose name he’s only half-attempting to remember - smile.
"With your propensity for over-dramatics, you should have gone into the theatre."
Dakin mutters something that sounds like, "All dons think acting is a waste of time." But then there’s the familiar quiet thud of a cup of tea being placed in front of him, and the young man, whose name may-or-may-not be Matthew, slides into the seat across from him.
"Thanks," Dakin adds.
The boy nods almost shyly, and suddenly Dakin remembers him from the night before, and from other nights previously - because he’s the only one Dakin’s met so far that hasn’t brought a girl back or publicly made a fool of himself attempting to chat one up. Then Dakin’s mystery tea-bringer pushes his glasses up his nose in a way that reminds Dakin instantly and embarrassingly of Irwin. He feels angry at the way it makes his stomach knot, angry at the way that here, in this kitchen, on this Sunday morning, miles from home, Irwin still exerts some kind of power over him.
Because that isn’t right, is it, Dakin was the one with the power, with the influence: he always was.
He looks over the rim of the mug to study the curve of possibly-Matthew’s neck, the way he’s just slightly too focused on the book, his grip a little too tight, and Dakin thinks, I fucking could. If I wanted to.
Sometimes, if he’s honest with himself, Dakin has to admit that he just misses him. But then Dakin is never honest if he can help it, these days.
“So,” he says, with carefully pitched indifference. “What are you reading?”
And instantly, Matthew looks up.
~