The Master knelt in pain, the Drums ruthless and insensitive to his physical screaming and mental fragility. He wanted to cry, before of course, the drums beat that pathetic urge out of him. So instead, he sat alone in this empty room, the drums berating themselves into his head.
He hated himself for thinking such a thing, he hated the drums for not letting him think such things, but as he shook from the physical burning the drums commanded him this. The Master felt so alone, alone with the drums – something he so did not wish to be. Helpless to whatever they faired, powerless to their commands. If there was one thing the Master hated, it was being powerless. But he was afraid. So afraid to oppose the drums, afraid of what would happen if he didn't listen.
Everything in him burned as he resisted the bitterness that wished to break from his eyes, failing to distract himself with the incessant, angry beating of the drums. Alone with his captor in unfathomable pain.
Suddenly, the incessant explosion of the drums became accompanied by footsteps. His face enraged and terrifying, hiding timid, wounded eyes, the Master looked up and saw something incredible.
The Doctor. The Doctor was walking towards him. How dare he? He felt the words affront his mind, but they felt numb. The hatred that he found so familiar towards the Doctor was muted, that hole that it left now was filled with need. The Drums became even louder, beating as if to knock the feeling out of him, but failing as the hole just became bigger and bigger, the contents expanding as well.
The Doctor's arms were extended, and the Master reached out a hand that grabbed the sleeve of his blazer, clutching it fiercely before the Doctor's arms wrapped around his body, drawing in his shaky, bloody form. The Master greedily clutched the Doctor's back, burying himself in the other man, the deep pit of hate and need suddenly being filled with something alien…content?
The Doctor opened his eyes on his side, finding himself hugging a pillow with his face damp. He felt alone and hollow, unreliable and traitorous because he wasn't there when the Master needed him, not that he would ever accept his help. But the many times when he'd promised he'd be back in five minutes and came back in fifty years flooded his thoughts, thinking about those that he'd only filled with disappointment, falling back to sleep in a tear wringing state.
The Master awoke, eyes bloodshot, drums loud enough to wake all hell and gallifrey. Immediately he felt insurmountable self loathing as he screamed at the drums to shut up and at himself for having such disgraceful, pathetic dreams. The cup of water at his bedside was taken and banged on the nightstand, breaking into shards. A larger one was hastily selected and scraped against the palm of the hand that reached out to the Doctor in his dream.