As a child, he had never understood poetry. When his mother went weak at the knees because his father painted a 10-foot love poem on their bedroom wall, Theta, like any sensible young boy, made retching noises and called it sappy.
Koschei, quiet and intriguing, made Theta see the circles, beautiful and complicated, forming behind his eyes.
He understood poetry when they studied the Ballad of Rassilon together. One of Gallifrey's oldest stories, most children knew how to draw it from instinct and memory, but Theta Sigma's liberal parents had raised him on wildly xenobiological literature. Koschei, ever knowledgable, held him and guided his hand while they painted the canvas. It was the most famous section, Omega dying in Rassilon's arms.
Koschei's hand was on his pale wrist, even though he could have just held the paintbrush for him. They were drawing a perfect circle, a hexagon nearly breaching it, which roughly translated as 'And so Omega's skin became flame, until he was born anew, but Rassilon wept when he saw that by the process he had wrought, the love had vanished from his eyes'.
"No, no, Theta, three degrees to the left. You've drawn 'regrets', when it should be 'happy memories'," said Koschei.
"Oh, Kos, what's the bloody difference?" complained Theta, using his mother's slang.
Koschei manouvered the hand he had around his waist to clutch the bruise he had made with his teeth the night before, purpling under his shirt.
"You know the difference," said Koschei, and, like a key turning in a lock, understanding fell into place.