A/N: I changed the summary! Maybe y'all will read chapter 5 now
Out of all the things that one could cognitively arrive upon after traversing the river Lethe for hours, he ends up with friend. He says it out loud. "Friend."
Sounds stupid. Kind of like 'fiend', but not. What does friend even mean? Depends on the person. Yet again. Nothing is definite. Especially with people; one day everybody's yelling and the next everyone's holding hands.
It was one of those mal-conceived ideas of the early morning and late night that brought him out here, an irrational, adolescent test to see the difference between the entire Prydonian Academy and his House. Thus far, the test has gone quite similarly, but with a lack of a twisted ankle and adrenaline boost before hours of unconsciousness. There is nothing very hormonally stimulating about xenobiology. Which he's better at than Vansell. Which is an arbitrary observation he needs to stop bringing up in his head.
The noise still carries on the same as before, but it takes a bit of concentration to hear it and complete stillness to pick out the pattern of four. Like it's waiting for something, or is somehow attached to his biology and flares up at the right times, or just likes the lack of information being rushed at him through a forest devoid of killer animals.
"How long have you been out here, exactly?" The voice appears behind him.
"Since fifteen minutes before dawn."
Koschei turns around on his rock hallway into the brook, and there's Theta looking like he just ran here and back. Blond hair lacking all order, pants flecked with mud, face pinky red, and no shortage of increased breathing labour. Messy.
Coming from the one who's got water half of everywhere and hasn't eaten anything since last night, grinning ridiculously because the noise is giving him a day off mostly.
"It's 12:00. You need to eat."
"Eating is overrated." Koschei replies. "Besides. The noise is kinda quiet."
"Koschei."
"Oo, threatening."
Theta sighs, marching up to Koschei, grabbing him by the arm, and walking back toward the Academy.
It might physically pain him to withhold sarcasm. "Oh, you always get me with the arm grabbing." Theta looks thoroughly unimpressed, but sticks around anyways. Bless him.
"Don't you start. I've had enough verbal infliction from Vansell for the next month."
They manoeuvre through trees and people and rocks and break the treeline: the reddish glass-and-concrete building sprawled around the flat expanse down the hill.
Koschei smiles less than sanely for other reasons, maliciously standing triumphant over Vansell for failing to steal his best friend. Vansell is so much more intelligent and qualified and altogether more composed of a being than he, but was entirely unable to convince Theta away from Koschei. There is a surreptitious curtsy of thanks amongst the triumph, thanking Vansell for the self-esteem.
"Where to?"
"I'm getting you a sandwich."
"I can get my own sandwich, you know."
Koschei doesn't like that smirk. It's the yeah that's not going to happen smirk.
"I mean a full sandwich with actual food in it. Not a slice of bread." Funny how they can sprout from defensive murder and the Decree of Rassilon and have qualms over sandwich composition. Theta gets irrationally irritated at Koschei's lack of self-preservation, he's noticed. "Tell you what, I'm taking you into Hamlet."
If Hamlet were a person, they'd be the younger brother of a celebrity, working a nine-to-five in engineering, always pretending to get along famously with their elder sister, but pretending she doesn't exist to maintain some kind of dignified normalcy. Living in a constant struggle to make some kind of personal identity to life that is always thwarted by people praising their relation. The elder sister never notices this struggle, stuck with the image of a younger brother that never grew up as well as she did.
Little did anyone know, the younger sibling is way better at cooking.
"So that noise in your head." Theta doesn't seem to understand the concept of stopping for a second to eat in silence, always rushing about to do something. Despite his pointless protests in Lethe, he would actually love to eat an entire sandwich in peace right now. "Does it still bother you?"
Koschei takes a bite of elaborately seasoned fish in bread, wondering why good food can never be properly produced in bulk. Theta has somehow located an unused building with an accessible roof, deemed worthy of eating lunch atop. Instead of somewhere normal, like the place they got the sandwich. Or a location without questionable legality.
He swallows a bit prematurely. "Occasionally it'll pop out of six/eight time and knock at me for four beats."
"You have a rhythmic telepathic disposition in six/eight time?"
"Four beats implies there's a break in between sections. We discussed this."
"Honestly my comprehension of music is atrocious."
Koschei opts for another bite of sandwich instead of replying."Although I guess it can't be telepathic without a source." Theta looks at him sideways, as if an unorthodox angle will help solve the mystery.
"It's usually just a headache, sort of."
"I am intrigued."
"It's really not all that exciting."
Theta is either trying to exactly determine the array of colours in Koschei's pupil or is attempting to initiate a soft-spoken staring contest, both hypothetical motives making Koshei look at his sandwich in slight discomfort. Embarrassment? Really, the fundamental discomfort of being stared at is the violation of social norms, which has already been undergone eating a sandwich on a roof discussing anomic mental noises. However it could lie at a basic survival instinct, as the motive of the starer is akin to that of a predatory animal. But should this not be alleviated once the subject is known?
Koschei swallows, glaring at the rest of his sandwich as if it is withholding information that could be incredibly useful in his hunt for—
Theta is holding his hand. And Koschei can't exactly move without another bout of social norms but then hand holding isn't exactly a social norm to begin with and it's… well it's… has he been shot with adrenaline?
Koschei is no longer stared at, now the one staring, feeling tentative fingers clumsily twine themselves in his hands, the nervousness rolling off him in waves that are so obvious and so… well, mutual.
He tells his fingers to work properly and communicate the same thing, whatever it is, the irrational holding of hands that would quite frankly only result in an unneeded injury if one toppled off the edge of the roof. Theta refuses to look at him properly, sneaking a sideways look underneath scraggly hair he can never be bothered to have cut.
Koschei likes it.
Neither of them seem capable of speech, the air around them feeling like many pairs of eyes and the sandwich in his left hand is momentarily forgotten. His palm is getting noticeably sweatier, but taking it back wouldn't be conventionally correct, and it's all quite complicated.
"The simultaneous release of adrenaline and dopamine." Theta declares in a sheepish way, also not quite able to fathom what to do with his hand anymore. "Probably."
"That sounds about right." Koschei doesn't know where to put his sandwich or what really to do with his hand, contemplating the universe's collective bravery and social norms. He shoves himself over after six seconds, immediately next to Theta, still holding a sandwich and his hand somewhere in the air in a moment's decision to (equally as irrationally) tilt his head to (theoretically) rest gently on Theta's shoulder.
He's a bit tall.
Inversely, Theta is a bit short.
###
"And where have you two been?" Mortimus asks in his slightly high lilt from the top of Drax's chair, who is currently against Vansell, Magnus, and Jelpax in an intense-looking board game.
"You're missing the Sepulchasm tournament." Millennia says, legs swung over Rallon's. They're as cute as they are questionably spaced in age.
"Don't you guys normally discuss quantum mechanics or… something?" Theta leans to the right as he approaches the table, looking past an overcrowded easy chair to see everyone basically tied for first. Final bracket, then.
"Hold on, is that my history textbook?"
Vansell shrugs. "I'd seen you with it before like once and didn't think you need it because everything works off the slates."
Koschei lunges forward, ripping the stagnantly burning, bound book out from under the game's setup. Suspended pieces scatter to the floor, fire being doused but not without leaving charred remains all around the book. "If I didn't need it, do you think I'd still own it?"
He is hardly heard above the collective protest, every participant and spectator now demanding of him why he would do that.
"I don't even understand how it's in your possession!" Vansell sputters, not rising from his knelt position on the floor to be sure Koschei and Theta are the only ones standing.
"I need it." Koschei scowls at Vansell, knowing that innocent expression is so very fake but sure nobody else recognises it.
"Why?" Vansell's voice raises just in the right spot for everyone to hear, that fake confused laugh always backed with a curious audience.
Koschei screams for his brain to work, to find some great phrase to twist into a crowd-pleasing insult. Theta cuts in for him.
"Why the fuck do you need to light a textbook on fire?"
"Sepulchasm." Jelpax informs him, as if the word alone explains everything.
Vansell ignores them. "Why do you need a physical copy of a single year's worth of history curriculum? I am genuinely curious."
Ushas isn't present to metaphysically back him up, likely tucked away safely in her room. Drax could say something if he didn't fear it would come out less intelligent than a vogon. Magnus has left Koschei to his own devices for reasons yet unknown. Everyone else, well. They like Vansell better.
Koschei throws the textbook down and runs. There shouldn't be anything shameful about memorising history through a timeline he can touch, but in front of Vansell it sounds like he's suffering a learning disability. The rest of his Deca wouldn't mind, and Mort would probably benefit from the idea. A few people would. It's just Vansell, but Vansell seems to have everybody now.
He can hear Theta replying to whatever Vansell sneered as Koschei fled, words muddled together by the goddamn thinking in his head. He should be able to fight his own battles, especially over a bloody textbook, but apparently he needs Theta for everything. Wonderful.
Theta doesn't even knock.
"Here you are, then." He flops on the bed next to a depressively perturbed Koschei, grinning for reasons yet unknown and handing him the charred textbook. Koschei doesn't bother trying to read it.
"Thanks."
"No need to sound so ungrateful," Theta scolds, "it cost me a five-day suspension."
Koschei looks from the textbook to the smirking Theta. "What the hell did you do?"
Theta leans in as if he were telling Koschei a secret, but knowing Theta he is going to tell at least six more people. "I hit Vansell in the face with it. I ran off when he was on the ground with a bloody nose growling something about battered assault."
"And you just happen to know the duration of suspension for battered assault."
Theta winks, confusing Koschei all the more. He somewhat uncomfortably checks the cover of his book for blood. "Worth every second."
"It's just a textbook. Hardly worth suspension."
Theta looks appalled. "It's not 'just a textbook'! He broke into your bedroom, stole one of your possessions that is not so easily replaceable, and lit it on fire! He's the one who should be charged."
"Literally just a history textbook."
Theta smacks him on the shoulder in all goodness, a hair distraught Koschei is not impressed by his actions. "A history textbook that put Vansell in his place, thank you. That has to be impressive."
Koschei smacks him back. "The fact you'd spend five extra days in Lungbarrow for a bloody Vansell and crispy textbook is impressive."
"Theta Sigma!" Borusa's voice booms down the halls, an impressively quick response time. Jelpax is a faster runner than they thought.
"That's my cue." Theta smiles completely contrary to anyone about to be issued a suspension with no questions asked. He doesn't move off the bed for a few seconds, doesn't take his eyes off some part of Koschei's face, doesn't acknowledge the sound of Borusa's footsteps ascending their flight of stairs. Koschei can't hear the battle in his head raging at light speed, the driving force of his reckless demeanour.
He makes up his mind. "See you in five days," he releases in the latter half of a breath, soon gliding out the door on the pairing of nervousness and fear of the unknown for legs.
Koschei cracks open his hard-won textbook, gently letting part-blackened pages fall open to the construction of the Death Zone.
The Boy Who Outlived Rassilon, crammed under the bed without a robe on, is much braver than he.
###
Theta leans back in the chair of his desk, arms folded, back still sore from the peppering of disciplinary pseudo-burns he received for 'motivated assault'. Quences's "artificial" discipline, the stuff that fades after four hours sharp and is therefore "simulated" and "not actually harmful to the nervous system". He can hear the first wave of welcoming voices from downstairs, but still keeps his eyes closed in the hope it will spontaneously become night and he can sleep for the next week.
But alas, Innocet opens the door halfway to inform him of the guest's obvious arrival. "You have to be downstairs in thirty seconds, Theta." Innocet's the sympathetic type, and now always helping arranged weddings. The last of Rynde.
"No, I don't." Theta grumbles back, eyes still shut tight.
"I've been through this before, and believe me when I say you do not want her in your bedroom."
"But why now?"
"You'll have to be more specific."
"Meeting my future wife," he spits out the last word. "Doesn't that happen at… I dunno, forty-five? I'm only thirty-five."
She sighs, impatient. "There aren't any rules, but yes it's generally later. Believe it or not, Quences is doing you a favour by finding her early, and you should be grateful you're not meeting the day of the wedding."
"Has that happened?"
"Maljamin. Expelled Prydonian, married off at seventy-eight, went missing for a hundred years before busting down the door in their third body demanding to see the Housekeeper. That is, admittedly, the reason they implemented a few decades of meet and greet."
Theta opens his eyes for the first time in half an hour. One-two-three-four on the desk, a kind of not habit he'd picked up that functions for nothing but making him over-conscientious of his own heartbeats. He spins around to face Innocet. "Why is marriage still even a thing? It's not like we're capable of reproduction or any sort of," he makes a sour face, "attraction the looms didn't supposedly wipe out for unpredictability." Innocet jumps to the exact centre of her bed and picks up her slate without looking, ending up perfectly cross-legged and still looking at Theta.
"People used to do it all the time way, way back. International relations. And the looms didn't completely eradicate anything; that's a myth."
"That's great, but we're not medieval diplomats last time I checked."
"It's something to do with politics that I'm sure you're too bored to care about and a social analysis regarding the differences in raising children in packs or in units. You're a science experiment until the contract ends, now go downstairs."
"Don't suppose I could catch a deadly virus?" He is glared at. "I'm going."
"She's two years younger than you, by the way." Innocet says, Theta happy for the excuse to pause in the doorway. "And you graduate the same age as Patrexes."
"So I've got two years to fake my own death and run off. Got it."
Innocet sighs. "Not what I was suggesting."
Theta saunters out of the room mainly in fear of having someone else storm up and demand he descend the stairs, working through his sloppily perfected alibi.
Favourite colour's orange, into advanced individualised mechanics, doesn't like drinking tea, doesn't exactly know why he's a Prydonian, runs a little study group with his friends Delta and Zeta, rather enjoys the naming system for clarity. Will spend a couple minutes on the point arguing individuality and whatnot for flavour.
###
Vansell is late. Although nobody's surprised. Ushas is the only one outwardly displaying blunt irritation at this, everyone else deciding it's better to hold their tongue instead of risking being involved in an argument with him. He has some divine gift to deliver baffling incorrect facts with such strong conviction his opponent is struck dumb for long enough to move to the next point until his position is ultimately on top. Everybody knows it happens and nobody knows how to combat it. And that is why all eight of them left make small talk instead of moving onto someone else's idea. Like would be normal.
Koschei and Ushas make eye contact across the room, a moment of mutual agreement, stuck in their usual locations. The seating arrangement was not actually Vansell's idea; more of a natural phenomenon. Theta is glaringly absent, if only to Koschei, who is left nearly centred in their incomplete circle of eight.
"Sorry I'm late!" He's not really sorry. "Some idiot held up my entire calculus class. Thinks she's going to be in pharmaceuticals."
Ushas wants to speak. She normally does in this group, the one place Koschei can't see the strain on her face in a constant measuring of the pros and cons of speaking aloud. He never quite understood it. Theta tried telling her to "just relax" once. She punched him in the ribcage.
"Right." Vansell pretends he's a professor in the extreme, complete with flourished condescension and scribbling intricate diagrams all over their smart board. "Speculative mythology. The Great Old Ones."
"I usually do speculative mythology." Koschei interjects, already drawing up a number of scattered facts on the Old Ones.
"Weren't you s'posed to be talkin' some kinda social… politics…" Drax flaps his hands in the air, receiving a mock patient posture from Vansell.
Mortimus mumbles "Sociopolitical typography."
"Yeah, tha' one."
Vansell shakes his head. "Jelpax had me under the presumption we all had that cleared up enough for the unit." He lays a pen on the smart board. "I decided this would be more efficient to cover, since it was taught horrendously."
Koschei folds his arms. "Aren't you the one always preaching we need to stick to the order of things?"
Vansell completely ignores this, a look around the room revealing everyone except Ushas is as well. She hyperalanyses her fingernails, one of the obvious tells she's not going to acknowledge her existence in front of others for a while.
"As with any discussion of transcendental beings, it is crucial to remember…" Vansell writes 'God' on the board in giant capital letters, running a bright red line through the middle. "None of these refer to 'God' or 'gods' in the mythological sense. While to many species, their individual power and capabilities are considered equal to that of their idea of a God, Time Lords are able to rationalise the fallacy in this speculation. Old Ones do not consider themselves gods."
"Some of them do, actually," Koschei adds, expecting a response from anyone for the last time. Perhaps his voice box is on mute. "And the Grace are actually—"
"They originated, however, from a different multiple of the universe far more advanced than ours with the ability to travel between them."
Koschei has no remorse in interrupting. "If you're talking speculative mythology, then really they originated," Vansell sighs to regain self-control. A reaction. "from a universe directly predating ours."
"That's not possible," Millennia hisses at Koschei. Everyone glares at her.
"It's part of the mytholo—"
"Would you like to leave?" Vansell asks him out of the blue in a just barely qualifying professor voice. "Because you're stopping me every half sentence with something completely incorrect." Everyone except Ushas takes this as their queue to all stare at Koschei simultaneously, the spell of ignorance broken.
"I think I know my facts better than you do." Something is telling Koschei to perhaps stick to a tone of voice that can't be labelled as 'rude' for sophistication reasons. That something needs a reality check.
"A universe directly predating ours is an impossible theory not included in speculative mythology," Millennia supplies. "We are not discussing primitive mythology."
"Nobody's discussing anything. Vansell's yapping at us." Nobody speaks.
"Dude, nobody thinks the Grace are gods," Magnus of all people decides to inform him, a radius of twenty metres in the commons now intent to listen to the silence.
"That's not what I meant, I was only going to bring up—"
"Since you seem to have your facts in check, why are you even here?" Vansell asks with a smile, hands clasped together. Koschei would love to know what he told everybody. He contemplates Vansell for a second, trying to figure out why he came downstairs in the first place.
"I was just going to mention, Old Ones are high-evolved, alternate Time Lords who thought they were big shots."
Vansell sighs. "Yes, thank you for your contribution Omega. You can leave."
Leaving is always more amusing with Theta, a load of fantastic puns and sarcastic comments behind them and a stupid scientific idea they should not execute ahead. This time he goes upstairs to fact-check, alone.
A/N: tHeY FiNaLLy hOlD HanDS oK tHiS iS a NoVel it TaKES a biT fOR tHe ChaRacTer dEvEloPment