Fic: Hollow time (Doctor Who RPF)
Oct. 21st, 2014 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flowsoffireTitle: Hollow time
Author: flowsoffire
Fandom: RPF (Doctor Who)
Pairing/characters: Matt Smith/Arthur Darvill
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance
Rating: T
Word count: c. 1400 words.
Disclaimer: I own the actors even less than the characters, thank goodness for them.
Summary: Matt churns dark thoughts in the night.
Author's note: It’s![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
a_phoenixdragon’s birthday! So I haz written her RPF. It seemed like the most meaningful and personal thing, since she made me ship RPF slash and that was not expected. XD
This fic is mostly relevant to Mandy, who I very much hope will enjoy all the hurty bits, and whoever is relatively familiar with her take on Matt/Arthur; other people will probably wonder why the seven hells I’ve written Matt so utterly depressed. BLAME HER! SHE MAKES IT GOOD THOUGH! Babies. And angst. I’ll shut up and let you read now. Well, whoever is interested that is.
**************************************************************************************************************************
His breathing is the only thing in the small room.
It is not quite snoring, but not quite far—a slow and deep rumble, restful and yet not. Arthur breathes and Matt listens; if he focuses, if he really strains, the silence will not be silence but the sound of life flowing in and out of his lover’s lungs. That tiny noise can become peace, perhaps, drowning out the thud of his own low heartbeat.
Peace—surely that is a lie. Arthur is many things but peaceful he is not. Yet in sleep his muscles relax, the long lean lines of his slender back easing some, only some. Part of that tension cannot be coaxed out: not by slumber, not by Matt’s clever fingers, strong and gentle all at once when he gets to massage out the disquiet… or strong and gentle at other times, when he dares not hold as tight as he might wish, when control slips and they tangle together in a mess of sweat and rough whispered words. There is no peace there, only aching, trembling release. He cannot claim to offer Arthur calm and repose. He cannot claim to offer much, truly… only give whatever his lover might wish to take, and hold back the rest. Only that. He is entitled to no more.
Lover. Quite the dangerous word that is, for its implications, the possible and infortunate slips of the tongue. He usually keeps himself from thinking it, as best he can; but then it grows late and the night stretches away into long, hollow hours, and Arthur sleeps and Matt’s mind is so awake, churning its stream of messy clattering thoughts—half of them stupid, the other half mad. Then the boundaries get blurred and his dominion over his brain processes ever so shaky; and then he forgets himself, nearly, and longs to hold on to what he knows is not his.
It is easy, too easy. Arthur fills the empty space all too naturally; there is his warmth at Matt’s back, pressing stubbornly—there is his breathing, whisper in the dark and hot air coming to tickle the small hairs at the nape of Matt’s neck, drawing guilty shivers. During the night, he rolls away restlessly; it hurts to make himself not move, to remain curled on his side and feel his flesh crawl with the need of another’s, but somehow Matt manages. He would not want to crowd Arthur, he tells himself, nor to bring him discomfort with the heat pouring off of his own skin. When he tosses and turns in tired wakefulness, when he rises with or before the sun, he ought not to be a disturbance to any other. Yet he also knows it is symbolic, more than anything else. He will not get too close when his presence might be unwelcome.
The restraint is second nature. There are always hints, little things to remind him to be humble and keep control. It’s always push and pull though, casual affection thrown at him carelessly, just brushing the surface; that is the cruel thing—the people who allow him to bask in their radiance, just let him be around them like he can belong there. Then there is want, and there is Arthur and there is why me? He holds no true answers to that one. But Arthur needs an ear, and a shoulder, and arms to wrap around him, and—yes—a body to lose himself into. That is all there is. It is enough; surely, it is more than he even deserves.
That certainty stands, and by all means he should expect no more, yet it never is that simple. In the end he always thinks, and always wonders, and always chews on the facts and words and moments, over and over and over again. He fears himself in the night, those always-recurring, merciless patterns; he hates his own mind, tiredly and desperately, with its constant twists and turns that won’t let him rest. He does attempt to cease thinking, to just relax, just be, but who is he fooling? Simply being was never something he was too good at. He can slip into another’s skin—be somebody else, somebody real or impossible, be the Doctor—and he can lose himself in Arthur’s arms, yet that is only temporary respite. At the end of the day, he is Matthew Smith and the name, the face in the mirror come with such a hollow feeling it leaves his head reeling.
He tries to breathe calmly, too, when his chest tightens at the thought and it feels as though his heart were trapped in a cage; he paces himself to the rhythm of Arthur’s inhalations and exhalations, slipping away so he becomes a mere echo. There is Matt lying there, breathing shallowly, just existing—and there is Arthur, so near yet so far. He could reach. He does not. He deserves not, and it would be an illusion anyhow. The tangible presence of Arthur’s warm skin cannot seep through his fingertips to him; the solid and beautiful form of his body, the weight and feeling of him cannot make Matt real.
Reality. It slips away, lurching like liquor sloshed lazily inside a glass. Reality is a distant concept that makes him feel deeply sick and inadequate; he cannot recall a time when he did not wish to escape. Running, acting… drinking, sometimes, in the dim grey days, in the endless nights, when Arthur isn’t there or when he is, only disconnected, angry or anxious. The bad habits or the good ones, they all merge together in a blur of just barely being; what people cheerily call his talent is but another way of eluding… It never ends. It never can. He will never just be.
He exists, like a shadow or a hollow thing, and he gives Arthur nothing to hold onto. It is the way of things. He never is enough.
Matt rises, shakily, stumbling a little. He is so careful not to disturb the blankets, not to make a noise as he pads away barefoot, painfully light. At the window, closer to the wide deep night, he feels no different than in the bed; the stars do not touch him and he doesn’t touch them. The stars shine cold and faraway, lonely. The Doctor is but a part. When the night comes and work time is over, he slips away like everything.
You. And me. Time on the slow path. Space in its emptiness.
There is time yet before the city wakes, before his solitude can get lost into noise and haste. He walks away quietly, brushing fingertips against furniture and walls to direct himself through the darkness. Time for tea—the temporary comfort of heat, to clutch in his hands and warm his belly.
In a few hours, he will make Arthur a cup. He will smile, and joke, slipping on the mask effortlessly. That he can do, at least—do well even. His façades are more real than himself, and beneath them, his sense of self flickers, scarcely there.
But these are hours, and he is helpless to wish them away. He has no magical machine to flee and leave himself behind. He has no grasp upon the world and its marvels. And even if he did—would he use them, could he use them to do something meaningful, or would he hover breathless in the great vacuum of space, wanting to curl up like a small wretched thing? Could he even stand to reach into the box of wonders, or would it only reflect back the truth of himself, pitiful and dim?
He knows not, and the matter has no true relevance. It is all symbolism, a metaphor: for the tired hero to sustain himself, he must bask in the flawed and glorious light of humanity. And he only feels half human himself, all awareness and no strength—bigger on the inside, and full of emptiness.
He nearly gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes. In and out, as the seconds pass. One, two—
Tick, tock, goes the clock.
True silence calls, true darkness, soft and deep and stifling all thought. Inviting. He flinches weakly from the pull.
Tea, in a minute, once his hands have stopped shaking so. He stumbles and clings to cold, inanimate items. Every object is more solid than he is, more substantial. He holds tighter, fingers aching.
Somehow, time goes by.
Author: flowsoffire
Fandom: RPF (Doctor Who)
Pairing/characters: Matt Smith/Arthur Darvill
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance
Rating: T
Word count: c. 1400 words.
Disclaimer: I own the actors even less than the characters, thank goodness for them.
Summary: Matt churns dark thoughts in the night.
Author's note: It’s
a_phoenixdragon’s birthday! So I haz written her RPF. It seemed like the most meaningful and personal thing, since she made me ship RPF slash and that was not expected. XD This fic is mostly relevant to Mandy, who I very much hope will enjoy all the hurty bits, and whoever is relatively familiar with her take on Matt/Arthur; other people will probably wonder why the seven hells I’ve written Matt so utterly depressed. BLAME HER! SHE MAKES IT GOOD THOUGH! Babies. And angst. I’ll shut up and let you read now. Well, whoever is interested that is.
**************************************************************************************************************************
His breathing is the only thing in the small room.
It is not quite snoring, but not quite far—a slow and deep rumble, restful and yet not. Arthur breathes and Matt listens; if he focuses, if he really strains, the silence will not be silence but the sound of life flowing in and out of his lover’s lungs. That tiny noise can become peace, perhaps, drowning out the thud of his own low heartbeat.
Peace—surely that is a lie. Arthur is many things but peaceful he is not. Yet in sleep his muscles relax, the long lean lines of his slender back easing some, only some. Part of that tension cannot be coaxed out: not by slumber, not by Matt’s clever fingers, strong and gentle all at once when he gets to massage out the disquiet… or strong and gentle at other times, when he dares not hold as tight as he might wish, when control slips and they tangle together in a mess of sweat and rough whispered words. There is no peace there, only aching, trembling release. He cannot claim to offer Arthur calm and repose. He cannot claim to offer much, truly… only give whatever his lover might wish to take, and hold back the rest. Only that. He is entitled to no more.
Lover. Quite the dangerous word that is, for its implications, the possible and infortunate slips of the tongue. He usually keeps himself from thinking it, as best he can; but then it grows late and the night stretches away into long, hollow hours, and Arthur sleeps and Matt’s mind is so awake, churning its stream of messy clattering thoughts—half of them stupid, the other half mad. Then the boundaries get blurred and his dominion over his brain processes ever so shaky; and then he forgets himself, nearly, and longs to hold on to what he knows is not his.
It is easy, too easy. Arthur fills the empty space all too naturally; there is his warmth at Matt’s back, pressing stubbornly—there is his breathing, whisper in the dark and hot air coming to tickle the small hairs at the nape of Matt’s neck, drawing guilty shivers. During the night, he rolls away restlessly; it hurts to make himself not move, to remain curled on his side and feel his flesh crawl with the need of another’s, but somehow Matt manages. He would not want to crowd Arthur, he tells himself, nor to bring him discomfort with the heat pouring off of his own skin. When he tosses and turns in tired wakefulness, when he rises with or before the sun, he ought not to be a disturbance to any other. Yet he also knows it is symbolic, more than anything else. He will not get too close when his presence might be unwelcome.
The restraint is second nature. There are always hints, little things to remind him to be humble and keep control. It’s always push and pull though, casual affection thrown at him carelessly, just brushing the surface; that is the cruel thing—the people who allow him to bask in their radiance, just let him be around them like he can belong there. Then there is want, and there is Arthur and there is why me? He holds no true answers to that one. But Arthur needs an ear, and a shoulder, and arms to wrap around him, and—yes—a body to lose himself into. That is all there is. It is enough; surely, it is more than he even deserves.
That certainty stands, and by all means he should expect no more, yet it never is that simple. In the end he always thinks, and always wonders, and always chews on the facts and words and moments, over and over and over again. He fears himself in the night, those always-recurring, merciless patterns; he hates his own mind, tiredly and desperately, with its constant twists and turns that won’t let him rest. He does attempt to cease thinking, to just relax, just be, but who is he fooling? Simply being was never something he was too good at. He can slip into another’s skin—be somebody else, somebody real or impossible, be the Doctor—and he can lose himself in Arthur’s arms, yet that is only temporary respite. At the end of the day, he is Matthew Smith and the name, the face in the mirror come with such a hollow feeling it leaves his head reeling.
He tries to breathe calmly, too, when his chest tightens at the thought and it feels as though his heart were trapped in a cage; he paces himself to the rhythm of Arthur’s inhalations and exhalations, slipping away so he becomes a mere echo. There is Matt lying there, breathing shallowly, just existing—and there is Arthur, so near yet so far. He could reach. He does not. He deserves not, and it would be an illusion anyhow. The tangible presence of Arthur’s warm skin cannot seep through his fingertips to him; the solid and beautiful form of his body, the weight and feeling of him cannot make Matt real.
Reality. It slips away, lurching like liquor sloshed lazily inside a glass. Reality is a distant concept that makes him feel deeply sick and inadequate; he cannot recall a time when he did not wish to escape. Running, acting… drinking, sometimes, in the dim grey days, in the endless nights, when Arthur isn’t there or when he is, only disconnected, angry or anxious. The bad habits or the good ones, they all merge together in a blur of just barely being; what people cheerily call his talent is but another way of eluding… It never ends. It never can. He will never just be.
He exists, like a shadow or a hollow thing, and he gives Arthur nothing to hold onto. It is the way of things. He never is enough.
Matt rises, shakily, stumbling a little. He is so careful not to disturb the blankets, not to make a noise as he pads away barefoot, painfully light. At the window, closer to the wide deep night, he feels no different than in the bed; the stars do not touch him and he doesn’t touch them. The stars shine cold and faraway, lonely. The Doctor is but a part. When the night comes and work time is over, he slips away like everything.
You. And me. Time on the slow path. Space in its emptiness.
There is time yet before the city wakes, before his solitude can get lost into noise and haste. He walks away quietly, brushing fingertips against furniture and walls to direct himself through the darkness. Time for tea—the temporary comfort of heat, to clutch in his hands and warm his belly.
In a few hours, he will make Arthur a cup. He will smile, and joke, slipping on the mask effortlessly. That he can do, at least—do well even. His façades are more real than himself, and beneath them, his sense of self flickers, scarcely there.
But these are hours, and he is helpless to wish them away. He has no magical machine to flee and leave himself behind. He has no grasp upon the world and its marvels. And even if he did—would he use them, could he use them to do something meaningful, or would he hover breathless in the great vacuum of space, wanting to curl up like a small wretched thing? Could he even stand to reach into the box of wonders, or would it only reflect back the truth of himself, pitiful and dim?
He knows not, and the matter has no true relevance. It is all symbolism, a metaphor: for the tired hero to sustain himself, he must bask in the flawed and glorious light of humanity. And he only feels half human himself, all awareness and no strength—bigger on the inside, and full of emptiness.
He nearly gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes. In and out, as the seconds pass. One, two—
Tick, tock, goes the clock.
True silence calls, true darkness, soft and deep and stifling all thought. Inviting. He flinches weakly from the pull.
Tea, in a minute, once his hands have stopped shaking so. He stumbles and clings to cold, inanimate items. Every object is more solid than he is, more substantial. He holds tighter, fingers aching.
Somehow, time goes by.
