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His body was a melody. Rhythm flowed from his shoulders, his spine, each flick of the wrist as his fingers cradled the handles of the drumsticks. His whole body was an instrument as their song flowed through him. Each strike of the hilt was intentional and purposeful; his arms seemed to dance in an impassioned flurry: bass, cymbals, bells — a grand symphony of drums.
No one could deny that he was skilled. No one could claim he was anything less than gifted. He’d been a natural since the first time he tapped out the measure on his thigh, and on its own, his performance moved any Time Lord who heard it.
Beneath every roll of the snare, behind every trill of cymbals, his rhythm remained strong and self-assured in his constant four-measure beat.
There was no difference between him and that rhythm. He was a conduit for something unspeakable, something far greater than Koschei Oakdown or any beauty he might create on his own. Even he couldn’t fathom the source of his rhythm, even as he paid it pathological homage beneath the swish of his arms. Still, the closeness he felt to it was spiritual, unblinkingly entranced as he tried to peer through a haze of time winds — it was emotionally draining, exhausting; but so pure that he would never let himself look away. He could never look away.
It had chosen him, through the Vortex, and it had never stopped calling. He was the vessel, the parcel, the box in the celestial mail. It was an incredible honor, so great and terrible as to tear his Gallifreyan soul to vicious shreds. The never-ending Drums, calling, calling to him, through the tear of the Untempered Schism.
As the song came to its end — according to the sheet music Ushas had printed out, anyway — he could feel the movement of dying chords fade into the core rhythm, as his flairs on the percussions complimenting the Drums inside his skull. He could feel the call inside him, simmering in the glow of the band’s worship, and his body felt light, like he’d been surfing. One song was over, but it blended smoothly into the beat that never, ever stopped.
His vision blurred before the bright cosmic mystery of spacetime. His eyes stung, he noticed. His back hurt; hunched over his physical drums, sticks lifted in the air, his foot rising slowly off the dampening pedal. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four… the song was over, and he lifted his head, with all the grace of a toadfish trying to act natural. He let his eyes rest across the room, so he wouldn’t have to bother trying to focus on anyone.
The synthetic material was solid beneath him. He didn’t quite want to return to his surroundings, even though the call was so overwhelming; his vital functions resonated with the lingering beat, even as his face felt sticky and damp.
“Koschei?”
The soft drag of a chair complimented the Drums — Ushas’ voice, making herself comfortable beside her many-layered keyboard in the blessed aftermath. She could call to him all she liked, but it would never be as urgent, as important, as the other calling. Odd, how she so close to him, but so distant compared to the compelling lull. So odd.
Could she hear it? Had he finally echoed its message loud enough, in his cosmic ordination as the chosen conduit? Was he finally, no longer, completely isolated by his burden?
He looked at her for a moment, trying to read her face before focusing became impossible, and he let his eyes drift back towards the neutral white of the wall.
“Wasn’t that beautiful?” Koschei’s voice came out thick with his emotion, more emotion than he’d realized he could feel. Did he look emotional? He knew he didn’t like to look soft. The echo was heavy upon his hearts. He closed his eyes, trying to remember how to be cold, but he couldn’t grasp onto anything tangible.
Theta clearing his throat was a familiar sound; his best friend always thought his own words were so important. Importance was all relative.
“Hey, Kos, good practice, you wanna come with me to our dorm now? I've been meaning to show you my quantum fielding project, it deviated in a way so spectacularly unique it can only be described as genius!”
Koschei observed the tone — the affected excitement twinged with gentleness, Theta’s defensive insecurity mingled so fluidly with his humor… but any meaning his words held seemed to blend together, engulfed in the chipper rhythm of his voice, sinking behind the beat that called from beyond. Everything sunk behind that beat in the end.
Were they all looking at Koschei? Was he expected to behave in some way he wasn’t living up to? He moved through a thick syrup, knee-deep in the cooling darkness of solar storms, of gaseous energies and whirling winds where none must ever be, maelstroms wrought by gravity, thunder which dragged through wormholes in and out of time.
His own senses slipped in and out of realization, his perception of whatever voices were around him sluggish and inadequate. At least the wall across from them was unassuming. He’d always liked that wall.
He shifted his hips above his seat, trying to jog his senses. He swallowed past something sticky in his throat. If only Theta knew that the physical was a shadow in comparison to what was just beyond his perception, what every part of him longed to understand. But he could feel the eyes of the band on him. He’d done this long enough to realize what these moments could turn into, even when in reality he had no idea of any of the hows or whys.
“I’m going to my dorm,” he decided without really deciding it, in a voice he could barely hear over the one-two-three-four, and he slid out of his seat and turned so fast that he almost collapsed. He gathered himself, tightening his fists around hard drumsticks, and looked once more at the neutral wall as his heartsbeat raced.
He spun around again, in four-beat time, and this time the sacred beat saved his balance. He could live two lives — the concrete and the metaphysical — and he was coming back down so quick and lively that no one could mind how sluggish he’d been a moment earlier — his thoughts bursting with paradoxes that couldn’t be shared in a room of acoustics — paradoxes that he wanted to consider alone, without judgement.
He clapped his hands together on the first beat of a new measure; refreshing pain ricketed where the drumsticks had dug into his palms. “Excellent job, Hot Five! Excellent practice! Mortimus, Thete wants to spend tonight in your dorm, can’t he? What a dear, I’ll see you all in Extra-Temporal Meteorology tomorrow, have a lovely night!” He hopped from the dais and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a satisfying crack. Apart from the Drums, there was silence in its wake. Always apart from the Drums.
****
“Shut up,” Theta growled preemptively at the band, staring at the door through which Koschei had stormed away. His hearts were pounding in his ribcage. He felt like he might be sick. He hated that; it wasn’t like this wasn’t something that had happened a million times before.
“The song was supposed to be on ¾ time,” Mortimus complained, as if every person in the room wasn’t intimately aware that Koschei was the one who had messed them all up with his distinctly four-beat time.
Theta didn’t dignify that with a response. He chewed his lip. At least it was better than biting his nails — he’d kicked that habit ages ago! He knew he shouldn’t get bent out of shape, Koschei hadn’t even seemed that bad, but every single time… stress. Constant stress.
He replayed the look in his best friend’s mocha eyes, how quickly his expression evolved from heavy wasn’t that beautiful? delirium to upbeat excellent job! staccato. It wasn’t quite the manic gleam that made Theta start planning preventive precautions; but not for the first time, he wondered if playing the drums in their rock band weren’t as good for Koschei as the student claimed.
“It’s my fault,” said Millennia sorrowfully. “He wouldn’t be so hard-headed about learning this one if I hadn’t been talking about trends, and popularity… what in Omega’s name was I thinking?”
“You know Kos takes every suggestion as a challenge. Blaming yourself is a waste of energy,” Ushas spoke dismissively, but as the group’s singer, she sounded just as frustrated as Millennia. “Nothing you can do once he’s got his sights set.”
“I’ll need to sneak in to fix my disaster of a lab project at some point,” Theta sighed helplessly, wondering how badly Koschei wanted to be alone. He hadn’t asked to stay the night with Mortimus, obviously. Koschei invented the wildest excuses when he was in these headspaces; which made it a little complicated when they actually were trying to cover for each other on the fly.
Ushas turned to him squarely. “In the interest of saving us all from Mort’s whining, Thete, if you promise to have a serious talk with Koschei tomorrow, you can crash with me tonight — since Mil’s always off with Rallon, anyway, it’s quite roomy.”
“Not always,” Millennia argued, though her olive skin had taken on reddish undertone.
“You will be tonight, though,” Mortimus winked. “I heard you two, cozying under the tapestry of the three founders…”
“It’s alright, gang, I like sleeping beneath the stars when I can get away with it,” Theta managed a smile as he packed up his instrument, longing for the weekends he and Koschei would sneak out to toke up with the Outsiders. It was always better when he wasn’t alone. When Koschei was able to be company, or accept the company of others.
“Theta,” Ushas addressed him. “The concert is in two weeks. This is a problem and I’m unwilling to ignore it. Fix it, or I will.” The threat in her tone was implicit.
“It can’t be good for Koschei to put himself through this,” said Millennia, as if searching for Theta’s agreement.
“Theta?” prompted Mortimus.
Of course they were all asking him. Theta grit his jaw. No one but Theta Sigma could convince Koschei to do something he didn’t want to — something they wanted him to. No one wanted to consider the fallout, or that the last thing Theta wanted to do was, what, tell his best friend that he couldn't be trusted to play music that didn’t match his imaginary metronome? Tell him he was too broken to be their drummer?
Theta seethed. Logically, he knew the Deca loved Koschei too, but Rassilon could they put more effort into showing it. It was hardly like Koschei was the only one in their friend group who’d had madness scrawled beside their name in the Book of Initiation, or so it was generally claimed — but maybe that was what enabled them to be so insensitive. Ushas wasn’t the one who was harassed in the halls for chanting about some cosmic calling — who was openly called insane by the elders simply for mentally shutting down in class.
“Fine!” Theta slung the perigosto case over his shoulder. “Fine, I’ll get the conversation rolling, and we can all talk to him about the band, and the song, and whatever you think we need to talk about, sometime when he’s feeling a little more up to it.” He crossed one arm over his chest, and marched towards the door where Koschei had left.
“Where are you going, Theta?” Mortimus jumped to his feet, as if annoyed at him for not cleaning up all the music stands. Koschei certainly hadn’t packed up his drums.
“To make sure he’s okay to be left alone all night!” Theta shouted impactfully, because what could be more important than that, and stormed out down the hall. He didn’t shut the door.
****
It was always an awkward place to land in — standing outside his own room, wondering how to go about entering. The lock was attuned to his biometrics, of course, but he stuck with his usual method. He knocked once for politeness, doubting his friend would be in any state to hear him anyway. Koschei hadn’t seemed to hear his offer to show him the quantum disaster he’d made of his class project… a project that still needed major ‘freshening up’ for the sake of his grade.
Theta opened the door and slipped softly inside their room, fully prepared to see his friend throwing things at walls. He was pleasantly surprised to see no more mess than his own bubbling project, and a shape curled up in the upper bunk.
“Kos?” Theta spoke, his voice mastering a practiced balance he’d learned between volume and gentleness.
“Mortimus said no?” Koschei’s voice came muffled from under a blanket, and Theta took a step closer to the bunkbed.
“Ushas offered, I can stay with her if you like. I just wanted to, you know, grab my homework for the evening… maybe check on you to be sure you really want to be alone?”
“I thought you’d love and support me in whatever way I need and don’t need explanations.”
Theta sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall as he gazed at the curve of Koschei’s shoulder. His friend wasn’t tapping it out right now, but he could imagine the drumbeat, always in his head. “Of course. I’ll leave you alone once I’ve gathered up my project, then. Is there anything I can get you while I’m here?”
At last Koschei pulled the blanket from his face, peering from the edge of the bed. His eyes were shining; his face damp and pallid; but he at least looked aware. “No. Thank you, Theta. Why are you worried? I thought practice went great.”
Theta gazed at him, thoughts racing through his head as he tried to determine whether Koschei actually thought it went well. “Oh, I was worried the reason you wanted me out was because you weren’t feeling well.”
“Oh,” Koschei nodded, resting his cheekbone tiredly on the side of the bed. “No, I… well, I feel like I might have missed something… I’m a bit… you know how I get, Theta. I want to be alone because I might talk in my sleep and keep you up.”
“I don’t mind. You know I’ll keep myself up longer worrying.”
Koschei gazed at him. “You don’t need to worry, I just told you I’m fine.”
Theta watched him, words rising up in his throat before he quashed them, because they didn’t quite feel right. He knew Koschei was excited — no, proud — to be performing on the holiday with the Hot Five. He knew questioning that would be tantamount to starting a fight, and he wasn’t sure he felt up to that, let alone Koschei. He sighed. “You know, if those great thoughts in your head ever get to be too much, you can tell me about them, right? I’ll always listen.”
“Of course I know,” Koschei closed his eyes, and the slightest crease crinkled his brow. “But I can handle my great thoughts. When we travel together, I’m going to show the universe the greatness of my thoughts, and we both know that.”
“You know what I mean.”
Koschei lay down again, so that Theta could no longer see his face. “Yes, I know that I can talk to you about it. I’d just like to be alone now. It’s not that you’re bad company, but my thoughts are better.”
Theta smiled; equal parts forced as it was wryly amused. “Enjoy your thoughts, then. I’ll go enjoy Ushas’.”
“I pity you. Goodnight.”
”Night, Kos.”
****
The next day was normal for Theta, barring Ushas’ clipped fussing. Roll out of bed, miss breakfast, rush to get to the first class of the day, barely arrive in time to avoid a structured reprimand. Koschei seemed normal — or normal for him, anyway. He was already behind his desk, books stacked before him. Theta studied his slightly twitchy jaw as the lull of Borusa’s voice faded to a drone in the background, and when they walked to their lockers together during break, Koschei seemed unfocused but present, rambling pointlessly about his favorite temporal reduction strategies from class. He had paid better attention than Theta.
He didn’t mention kicking Theta out of their room, and as usual, Theta followed his lead and didn’t bring it up. He hoped Koschei knew he wasn’t annoyed. Sometimes it was easier to be alone. Sometimes there was peace in knowing you weren’t ruining others’ nights with your hisses, screams, and assorted symptoms of madness. Presumably.
Theta wouldn’t go along with something if he didn’t think it was right. But that didn’t mean he felt good about broaching the topic of three-four time today. Ushas was right: telling Koschei he couldn’t do something rarely had good results.
Koschei could be very defensive about the effect of the noise in his head, and Theta didn’t blame him. He could only imagine what it was like to be told you were mad since you were eight years old; to be treated by anyone who knew like you couldn’t be taken seriously, let alone trusted. He had the sickening feeling it would look like they couldn’t be trusted, and that was what was stressing Theta out as they headed to their next class.
Gallifreyan philosophy on disorders of the mind was archaic — at least it seemed that way, in comparison to the more ‘primitive’ cultures he made a point of studying on his own — like Earth, where manufacturing pharmaceuticals for mad people was a whole industry! That Koschei received no sympathy from those who dictated children look into the Schism was unconscionable, and Theta was determined not to let the Hot Five become part of the problem, or seem that way to Koschei.
Four of them met up together before band practice, to figure out next steps before Koschei arrived. Theta had thought about it enough. He decided to make a point of being upfront. “We’re not going to play the song, because we care about him — not because he can’t do it, right? We hate to see him so sad. Seeing him sad makes us sad.”
“Did he look sad? He didn’t look sad,” Mortimus commented.
“He was crying,” Theta emphasized. Tear tracts had streaked down Koschei’s face during song yesterday, though he’d barely blinked or scrunched his face; dissociated, entranced by something ‘beautiful’ that was only real to him.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t equate to sad, Theta. I mean… did you look at him by the end of it, really?”
“What if he insists?” Millennia cut off the budding argument. “What if he decides to tie the song to his self-worth and try to master its beat to prove himself?”
“In that case he’ll fail, so we need to draw a hard line,” said Uchas definitively. “‘Sad’s is a useful tactic, Theta. Unlike capability, sadness is subjective, which we can use to our advantage. The rest of us are fine with playing on four-beat time. Stupid to let this issue drag down the whole performance.”
Theta stared at her, scandalized. “Rassilon, that is not what I meant, we cannot appear to be issuing an ultimatum in the first place—”
“He’s coming!”
Theta’s eyes widened. He tried not to look alarmed as Koschei burst in the door with a suspicious look on his face, instead smiling friendlily. What time was it? Theta resisted looking at a clock. He’d thought they would have more time to get this down before Koschei walked in.
****
Koschei had been looking for Theta, and now he had found him.
The Hot ‘Four’ were sitting amid the band gear, but their instruments were still in their cases. They appeared to be talking in hushed voices, and in a way that definitely indicated a desire not to be overheard. Koschei was curious. He tilted his head when they made too big a deal of noticing him, and didn’t immediately call out a greeting. Very curious.
Paranoia itched at his skull, laced in beneath the Drums. He tried to shut it up — the rational part of him wondered if it was part of his madness, as there were many reasons the Deca could be up to no good — but he couldn’t help but feel like they were all talking about him, and not in a good way. He wracked his brain for something he could have done to provoke collaborative retribution. Had he stolen one too many styluses? Disemboweled the wrong person’s pet? None of those seemed bad enough. He wracked his brain for reasons his friends would plot against him.
“Koschei,” Ushas beckoned, and Koschei met her eyes with an intensity that matched her.
“Hello.” He crouched down beside her — then laughed out loud to release his own tension, a bold shout of laughter that rang out in the silence amidst them. The other four looked at each other uncomfortably. Koschei leaned back on his hands, tugging his legs beneath his body as he fixed his eyes on each of them in turn, living on the bitter fumes of confidence as if cultivating a position of superiority in the heat of his hearts. He met Theta’s eyes. Theta instantly broke eye contact — telling him everything he needed to know.
Telling him everything he needed to feel, too. The smile seeped from Koschei’s face, a cold antsiness taking its place in his belly. “Please, friends. This is terrible showmanship for the Hot Five. If you need to say something, please be more excellent about it.”
Mortimus let out a sigh. “You can’t carry a beat, Koschei.”
“Well, he can…” Ushas began, and Theta looked back and forth as if in a silent panic. This was not how he wanted the bashing to unfold, apparently.
Mortimus swayed, “Sure, he can keep one beat…”
Koschei jumped deftly to his feet. His cheeks were burning. His head was burning, a red-hot flame that throbbed in spurts of four. He knew what people thought of him — dirty looks, whispers, sneers of disgust, onetwothreefour onetwothreefour, calling, calling him — and he could never prove himself — there was something he darkly relished about his bandmates mocking him too, because of course they would. Why not?
His nails dug into his palms, as what was happening clashed with what he feared and what must never be. The Drums, ever loyal, ever drawn by the his need or desperation, swelled louder in every direction, until there was nothing else. His friends were mocking him.
Where had this come from? No sooner did the question enter his brain than his nerves (one) and his anger (two) and his fear (three) and his pain (four) drowned it out. The room was melting around him.
Theta was looking at him. Theta’s lips moved, and even though no sound could pierce the never-ending call beyond the void, Theta’s eyes were fixed on his, like he was pleading with him. Koschei faltered.
The fire drained away, and he sat back, feeling tetchy, crossing his arms over his chest and adopting a sulking expression. He locked his eyes on Theta’s, picking out the dark flecks in his blue eyes until he could hear him again over the noise.
He could feel the whole band’s eyes on him. Let them stare. For all he cared, they didn’t exist.
“I love your drumming, you’re so good at it,” Theta said, matter-of-factly — earnestly. “We all do. You’re the best drummer any band could wish for. It’s just with that particular time signature…”
Koschei scowled at those last words, the hairs on his neck standing on edge as the ugliest puzzle was forced to accept its final hideous piece. He hadn’t misread what they were trying to say to him after all. He hadn't thought he has. And even when the finished puzzle once more deteriorated with the frazzled wires of his mind, he had seen their true intent, and he held the truth in his shaking hands.
He hated being here. He hated even talking about the Drums with anyone except Theta — let alone being criticized for how he chose to manage them. It seemed basic respect, when handling a madman, to at least overlook his madness.
Koschei laughed again to loosen his panic, and this time it was ice cold and raw with hurt; a parodic facade of indifference. His hearts were pounding, subconsciously eyeing the exits. “I can’t believe you’d kick me out. I’m better than all of you. What’s the problem, if I can do a single beat better than anyone? We can get some songs out of that.”
“We all want you here, Kos, you’re completely misinterpreting—” Theta said, and Koschei laughed again; his laugh sounded icy to his own ears.
“And who are you to insult me, Thete?” It was all he could do not to spin out of control. “You couldn’t keep your mind on a task at hand if you were locked in an empty zero room with nothing else to do. You’re supposedly playing the perigosto stick, but instead you keep messing around with that… that stupid… Earth toy…”
“Electric guitar,” Theta cut in, as if he didn’t know full well that Koschei knew exactly what the stupid thing was called. He’d been the one to help him acquire it from the Time Vaults.
Ushas spoke up, and she sounded unusually tired. “Koschei, we’re talking to you like the reasonable Gallifreyan we know you are. We know it isn’t fun for you being the way you are. Is there a chance that your agency as a drummer is feeding your—”
“Your sadness,” Theta interrupted, as if he thought Koschei couldn’t handle the word delusions. That only made him angrier.
“I wouldn’t be at the Prydonian Academy for this long if I couldn’t handle it,” Koschei snarled, glaring around at them vindictively, aching with the sting of betrayal. “But that doesn’t matter to you. I get it.”
“No you obviously don’t!” Millennia stood up, as if she’d been biting her tongue. “Kos, no one is saying you don’t have talent — no one’s even saying you don’t make good music, it’s just, look, all of us have something — I mean, even Lord Omega himself—”
“Did you just call me mad?” Koschei turned on her as all his standing once more to his full height.
“What? No!” Mortimus cried. “If she did, that wouldn’t make your reaction right now reasonable, but no one said that…”
“Yes you did! You’re kicking me out for being insane — I can read between the lines, within the crannies of circular characters, the beat of all your hearts!” Koschei jumped again with both feet, and the collision of his boots seemed to vibrate through his entire body as they hit the floor. His reaction was entirely reasonable, given the life he’d been stuck with, the shit he’d dealt with since he was eight. He could see everyone tensing as if they expected he would attack. Tell me what you really think… he felt his eyes stinging with tears, but he couldn’t stop it. The room was blurring before his eyes.
“Look at you all!” He slammed his fist into his head, and it rang like a cloister bell, intoxicating with his righteous anger. “You think you can criticize me? I get better grades than all of you!” He stomped forcefully around the room with alternating bootsteps, stamping in counts of four, feeding on the spatial-temporal vibrations that kept time with the Drums. “And that’s saying something—” his voice pitched as he switched to Old High Gallifreyan, hungry for its lyrical power to emphasize his words because those pitiful traitors could not hear the glorious, wonderful Drums. “—given that I’m the only one who can never-ever-ever escape distraction!”
He had to pause, his heavy breathing turning into gasps, resorting quickly to his respiratory bypass as a jumbled rush of his emotions drowned out the singularity of the noise. Urgency escaped him as a hiss, nay a moan, flung at his friends like a weapon through bared teeth. Four silent faces stared back at him. Ushas' brow was furrowed. Theta was the first to open his mouth.
But Koschei would not permit his best friend another chance to let him down.
The room quaked with his fleeing footsteps. He heard them before he realized they were his own. They grew faster. And he was running, like Theta, like a boy who wanted not to deal with his problems. He was running, and the Drums pounding from above clashed with the footsteps thundering from below, as his legs took him on the furthest detour he knew, to a destination that hadn’t yet revealed itself.
****
Only one thought was in Theta’s mind as he watched his friend flee with such a look of stricken, wild panic on his face. Koschei was going to hurt himself.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
He got up too quickly, tripped over Mortimus’ leg, bounded to his feet, and ran out the door.
“Theta, maybe he needs a moment!”
Theta ignored their shouts. He could still see that look of anger that had flashed in spasms between panic and hurt — the erratic stomping, jumping, the shouting — the frustrating sense of Koschei not understanding anything that was being said to him. Theta loved Koschei more than anyone else in the world. He should know how to be a better friend to him; after all these years he should know how to talk about Koschei's problem without triggering a breakdown. He’d wanted to help.
He’d made things so much worse.
Koschei was already at the end of the next hallway. If he heard Theta chasing him, he didn’t look back. The only indication was that he didn’t slow down, even as he made a sharp turn at the end of the hall and began thundering up a flight of stairs.
Shit. He was going towards the Astrometry Spire.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this, Kos!” Theta shouted in vain, his lungs heaving in quick breaths as he hurtled up the stairs after him. “We know you can handle it, we want it to be fun for you!”
He was catching up with him. He was the faster one — they’d spent their childhood running through red fields together, playing games that delighted in the chase, but as Theta liked to put it, he’d never stopped running. Running from the elders when they snuck out after hours was so much more thrilling and satisfying than the pragmatic stealth tactics Koschei preferred during schemes.
Theta could almost grab him — could wrap his fingers around Koschei’s arm, at least slow him down. He reached out, and his fingers brushed over the shoulder of his best friend’s robes.
Koschei’s shoulders jerked.
He whirled around as soon as he felt the touch, hurling himself backwards in one fluid movement, pinning Theta against the side of the stairwell with the weight of his body. Theta winced as his skull hit the wall. Koschei’s eyes were wild and irrational. Theta was suddenly very aware of how much bigger than him his best friend was.
For a moment, Theta felt a strange pulse of fear as he searched his friend’s eyes for any sign that this was something they could just talk out. But Koschei was miles away. Did he even know who he was holding down?
Still, Theta opened his mouth to speak, but before he could improv a speech, the wind was knocked out of him for a second time. He slid down several stairs before stopping his fall. Koschei has resumed running, and wasn't looking back. He was running towards the top.
Tears began in Theta’s eyes as he struggled to get back to his feet, wishing there was a rail to hold onto. His ribs ached from where Koschei had shoved him, his vision blurring white as he tried to catch his breath.
It was too late. Koschei was going to get to the top before him. And he might hurt himself. He could make himself regenerate, easily, just one step off the roof.
A stray, unwanted thought ran through Theta’s mind. Would the madness stop? Would Koschei’s brain chemistry reset upon full body regeneration, and right itself along with the change in personality?
Theta had looked into many historical cases in his mission to help his friend, as clinically condescending as such Gallifreyan analyses were. Sometimes regeneration did cure madness entirely; sometimes it worsened it. But madness that was caused by the excruciating overwhelming everything of the Untempered Schism was more resilient than most. It left an open wound in the mind that refused ever to heal.
Theta hated himself for even thinking of it. Regeneration strained relationships, and he wasn't sure theirs was in the healthiest state right now to be tested. Regeneration had ruined one of his professors' marriages, according to her! Theta wasn’t going to lose his friend. And Koschei wasn’t going to jump. Theta had to believe his best friend wasn’t that… stupid.
Relying on his respiratory bypass, he took a couple more steps before breaking into a slightly slower run. He had to hand it to Koschei; that had been a decent smack, well-balanced yet almost restrained, considering his panicked state. All Koschei wanted was to be left alone, not to hurt him. Theta’s heart ached that he couldn’t grant his friend that wish.
Fuck society, genuinely. Theta wanted out. If Time Lords weren’t so perpetually above it all, they might not have this selfish outlook that the “imperfection” of one reflected poorly upon their mighty people, or that a child's madness was a sign of weakness at all. Fuck them. They shouldn’t have let Theta study so much about other planets if they hadn’t wanted him to realize it shouldn’t be normal for a society to drive their children mad in the name of upholding a glorious tradition, before they even got a chance to contribute to society.
If Koschei’s father wasn’t so influential, he’d have been thrown out with the shoboguns when he didn't speak for weeks after the sacred trial of the Untempered Schism, only tapping out a rhythm with blown-wide pupils as if struggling to integrate what he'd seen into his developing young psyche. If it had happened to Theta, where would he be? Back in the orphanage barn? Alone?
The Time Lords would never help Koschei. No psychotherapy or medication for a mighty child of Gallifrey. No, when their elders sneered whenever Koschei was too obviously not all there, it was up to the Deca to be his space where he could to feel something akin to normal, and when they’d failed as horribly as today, it was Theta’s responsibility to do everything he could to amend it. No, it was his honor.
Because Koschei was his first and best friend, and Theta didn't know who he would be without him.
****
Koschei’s hearts were beating more quickly than the Drums, and both were obscuring his impressive view of the Capitol, but… the air was a lot clearer up here.
He was drowning. He didn’t want to try to think about what had just happened. It was easy for him to just slip out of the reality where he'd need to do so, to hide himself under the blanket of the soothing lull of the Drums, which might be painful and demanding, but at least were reliably there. And why shouldn’t he find comfort there? His friends thought he was too crazy to be in the band, too crazy to be a Time Lord, or just too crazy. It was the same infuriating rollercoaster he’d been since he was eight years old, determined to escape from the label of insane, but the harder he tried to cover for it, the more everyone else saw it.
He should have known that his friends would see it, too. He’d always had a creeping feeling that they did. They were just lying to him.
Friends.
He felt himself tense at the sound of movement behind him, breaking through the the muffling white noise inside his head. From the corner of Koschei’s eye, Theta pulled himself up through the hatch, and rolled onto the curved roof, panting quietly. He lay there for a moment to catch his breath before he heaved himself up again, and began to crawl towards Koschei.
Koschei dragged his gaze away, folding his arms over the legs he had drawn up to his chest. The vindictive thought occurred to him that Theta was vulnerable right now, crawling on the steeply domed roof. A thought hit him that he could push him off and he wouldn’t have to talk to him.
Fuck that. Even after everything, it wouldn't be worth it. Theta had been the first person to be nice to him after the Untempered Schism, the only one to consistently tell him that the elders were wrong to judge him. Who would he be without Theta?
Theta sat next to him with an exhale, glancing out at the cityscape, then back at Koschei, then back out at the city. His eyes seemed uncertain where to land. Koschei wished he had that problem. His eyes were beginning to feel hot and itchy as the reality of his friendship forced itself upon him over the sound of Drums, and the misery was creeping up on him. He didn’t want to lose his friend. It was too late now, that voice inside him was saying, he’d already lost him.
And yet he was here.
“Do you think they’re right?” said Koschei. His words felt wrong as they came out — slow, halting — as if his tongue was fighting its way through a mouthful of syrup. The Drums were just so distracting, and he wasn't good at rationalizing both realities at once. Theta’s brow creased in something resembling distress.
“Kos, no one was calling you mad…?”
“Do you think I'm mad?” Koschei swallowed, burrowing his face in his arms. He couldn’t bear to look at Theta right now. “I don’t think… the Drums, they don’t stop me from doing what I want to do… but… it’s constant, it never stops… it wants something from me, but however long as I listen, it’s never told me what. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.”
Theta draped an arm about his shoulders, and Koschei automatically turned his face into Theta’s chest. Theta was so warm; he could shut out the world, too. Theta emitted a soft hum. “If being mad is a bad thing, I don’t think you’re mad.”
That helped clear his head. Momentary derision prompted a scoff from deep in Koschei’s hearts. He looked up with a frown. “Theta, take it from me — being mad is not a good thing.”
“I know that what the elders call your madness causes you a lot of pain. But in my opinion, if being mad being means you have a broader mind and better aspirations than any of those stuffy old fossils are capable of, then I’d like to think we’re both mad,” Theta smiled, and it was so stupid, so optimistic, so unrealistic — yet Koschei felt himself mirroring it. It felt strange on his face.
“You can't just make up definitions to make me feel better about it, Theta. Or, you know, to avoid dealing with the real definition.”
“Try and stop me,” Theta said affectionately, but it didn't sound like an actual challenge. “It's not my place to tell you how to define your experiences. Satisfy yourself with the assurance that, however you do so, it will never change the way that I feel about you. You're my favorite person in the entire causal nexus.”
Koschei looked at him. Theta was a crapshoot with words. Sometimes, he fumbled and said the most awkward thing for a given situation… and other times, he came up with things like this. Koschei reached for Theta's hand. Their fingers interlocked together. “We’ll escape this place together someday, won’t we?” Koschei said quietly. “Like we promised.”
“Of course,” Theta said warmly. “We’ll see every star in the sky.”
“And if I figure out where the Drums are calling me, you’ll come with me?”
Theta’s hesitation made Koschei’s hearts start to race yet again, but he was swiftly reassured as Theta leaned his forehead against Koschei’s, the soothing tendrils of his telepathy reaching out to him. “Of course. It's only fair that we take turns picking the destinations. Maybe the Hot Five can tour the universe someday, and we’ll all give them a taste of what we’ve got.”
It took a few moments, basking in the soft comfort of his mental presence, for Koschei to realize what Theta had said. The moment comprehension began like the fragile petals of a flower, peeking open to taste the spring. It flourished and crescendoed in a rush of relief — and Koschei beamed, their minds tangling together in a medley of affection. “You still want me in the band?”
“Apparently, we’re just really bad at phrasing things,” Theta sounded equally relieved; like he’d wanted Koschei in the band that much. “There’d be no Hot Five without Koschei!”
“You were really just worried about me? That the fact that I’m invariably falling into…” his nail rapped lightly on the roof beneath them, tap tap tap tap, and he forgot what he was saying.
Theta squeezed his hand. “It looks like you’re in pain, Koschei, when you play.”
Koschei stared into his eyes, not quite hearing him. Theta waited for him to register the words. Koschei blinked. “Um. It’s a pure type of pain, like I'm fulfilling my purpose. It’s draining. It’s why I love to listen to alternative genres in my downtime because a less symmetrical cadence can almost drown out the calling — almost. And yet, whenever I start playing myself, I just sync up with the soundtrack. You're right, I can’t ignore it.”
Theta didn’t break eye contact, though something passed behind his bright eyes as if making some sort of calculation. “That’s why it’s so useful to be multitalented. Maybe if somebody else manned the drums, you would have something else to sync your music to, just like when you listen to your headphones.”
Koschei considered this. There was something gratifyingly powerful about being on the drums. The drummer controlled the rhythm, the speed, the tempo. All other instruments would fall to discord without his drumbeat. The drummer could go faster or slower without warning, and all other band members would be forced to move along with him. As drummer, he was the master of all of them.
And yet, really, it wasn’t Koschei who was in control.
“And would I play the perigosto stick, or the electric guitar?”
“Aw Kos, I didn’t say I’d take the drums.”
“Please. I couldn’t bear to give up my edge of power to any of those other school rats. You play drums or I burn all the bloody percussion instruments in a mighty bonfire. Your pick.”
Theta's amused smile was tangible in the union of their minds. He submitted easily. “You’ll have to give me a few lessons, first. Just a general rundown of all the decorations you add on.”
“The decorations have to come naturally. I’ll run you through the sheet music,” Koschei waved a hand. He was beginning to feel the slightest bit of confidence return to him. Theta had that effect. “It’s all quite intuitive. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I don’t suppose you need perigosto lessons from me?” Theta offered, and Koschei split into a grin.
“If it makes you feel better to imagine you're better at something, Thete.” Koschei grinned. It felt wonderful to feel appreciated again. Even knowing that switching instruments wasn't some bandaid solution that would make everything normal for him. Nothing could.
So much of his experience of music revolved around trying to block out the Drums. Giving into them, and just wailing his heart out on four-beat time, was a satisfaction that couldn't be matched by the steady willpower of resistance. Giving in felt like drowning, in the enormity of purpose — but ceasing to fight them made him feel as free as he could possibly be inside the prison of his mind.
He longed so badly to be free.
He wasn’t sure what Theta had just said to him now, but he was smiling like they were having fun, and when Koschei grinned back at him, the inside of Theta's mind seemed to sparkle like a waterfall of positivity. Theta’s arm was warm upon his shoulders, and Koschei's head leaned on his shoulder. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.
It felt nice.
Koschei hated thinking of the immediate future, because it rarely ever turned out. Still — as long as he had a friend like Theta — he thought he could come out the other side in one piece.