In the lazy, solitary heat of the Citadel, two boys relaxed. Their tests finished, they had taken off their ceremonial robes and sat, calm and quiet, in the baking suns high above their heads. It was a secluded place, a quiet place, barely a soul around to tell them off or berate them for being free. Theta Sigma, the elder (by one moon) of the two, rolled a bottle between his fingers. Pure ethanol: earth ethanol, high concentration, taken for scientific purposes and used by a number of rebellious students to get 'high'. Taking a small drink, his eyes fled to the boy across from him, head languorously thrown back and eyes closed, shining up to the ceiling. Koschei. Beautiful, wonderful Koschei. Theta knew, within him, that the other boy was more than his closest friend, much more, and it was very likely that they were not destined to go down the same path. The way they did things was different: one with force, one with kindness. But for now, in the heat, Theta stared, unabashed, at the shining mop of ginger hair upon his friend's head. Like fire, he thought. Burning fire, to match with Galifrey. Still transfixed by the plethora of fire wisps, Theta barely noticed when another hand interlaced with his own, and foreheads touched, and dreams of burning across universes filled his mind.
No matter how hard he tried, now that he was dark and cold and bitter, burnt out, lost and alone,a frightened child inside the body of a thousand, he never could capture the burning orange of his oldest, dearest friend. He would never stop trying.