Grief
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/23280241
Tears are pouring from his azure eyes and streaming down his rosy cheeks, marring his porcelain skin. His chest is heaving with each shaky breath, and his entire body is trembling uncontrollably.
So, he's holding him in his arms, so tightly he fears it may hurt, knowing that he can't let go.
He doesn't know why he's come to him for comfort. Likely because, as his oldest friend, he understands him best.
He doesn't care if these tears are besmirching his jacket. He doesn't know why his companion is so despondent, but understands that if he's come to him of all people, something truly terrible must be afflicting him. Perhaps he's grieving again. One of his pets?
He doesn't know why he's letting him hold him like this. The blood on those hands should have scared him away lives ago. Instead, he's trusting those hands, for they are the hands that are consoling him, the hands that are stroking his hair so gently. They are the hands that belong to someone he loves so deeply, regardless of temperament.
He's pushing their foreheads together and telling him everything will be okay, saying he wishes to know what's troubling him.
He's far too upset to be wary, and much too foolish, so he's letting him deep into his mind. He's granting him access to not just recent, but all memories, because he isn't thinking about his own safety.
One of his pets. The young boy, the one he'd once kidnapped. Pity, he liked that one. It was quite clever for an ape.
He's trying to speak, but only manages one choked out syllable. Before long, he's giving up on words.
Words are unnecessary if they have each other, for their affinity transcends mere loutions.
He's choosing not to venture further into his mind, though he's thinking he might like to. Perhaps another day. There's no potential for fun when all he's being presented with is this sobbing, snotty mass of nerves. Though he thinks him rather pathetic, he cannot deny the affection he feels for him. It's been so long since he's let him hold him like this.
He's frenzied and despairing, for he's finding it hard to control his emotions as of late. Had he been in any other incarnation he probably would have locked himself away in his TARDIS and dealt with his sorrow alone. Instead, he's going against his better judgement and standing in the arms of a mass murderer under the illusion that they are protecting him.
He won't hurt him. Well, maybe he will, but he'll never kill him, not permanently. A universe without him scarcely bears thinking about.
Without each other, they are nothing. Their hearts and souls are bound, intertwined. They are each other's fate.
He's realising now that he's being lowered onto a soft surface, probably a bed. His lover is soon by his side, so he's snuggling up against that chest again, snaking his tremulous arms around that velvet-clad back.
He knows this moment of grace cannot last forever. Soon enough, they'll be back to their old selves, pretending this never happened.
They're always playing pretend. They pretend to hate each other. They pretend to be polar opposites. They pretend that certain encounters never happened, but they never forget.
Deep down, he's hoping he'll stay. Occasionally, he will capture and keep him; this much isn't unusual at this point in their lives, but he always lets him go after they've had their fun. He always leaves willingly, without even a simple goodbye. And, honestly, that hurts. All he's wanting is for them to be together once more, for them to be inseperable, like when they were children. So, he's sighing deeply, and sending him one clear message:
Stay with me.
But come morning, he's nowhere to be seen.