mrsronweasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mrsronweasley) wrote2008-08-05 03:30 pm
mrsronweasley) wrote2008-08-05 03:30 pm
Entry tags:
New Fic: "In the Subjunctive" (Dakin/Irwin, Rated R)
Title: "In the Subjunctive"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mrsronweasley
Fandom: "The History Boys"
Pairing: Dakin/Irwin
Summary: Dakin thinks in the subjunctive. (~2700, Rated R)
Notes: With many thanks toqueenriley for beta-reading! All the remaining mistakes are mine. Written because I just can't get these guys out of my mind.
In the Subjunctive
~*~*~
Hector had always loved the subjunctive; it was his tense. It took Dakin a long time to hit upon the why, exactly.
Why did "I would enjoy a cuppa very much, thank you" sound so much better to him than, "I enjoyed my cuppa very much, ta"? Didn't Hector want to enjoy his cuppa? What was wrong with having had it, and then missed it, than anticipating something that might never even come? What if somebody just snatched the damned cuppa from out of his grasp, and all he was left with was the taste of his own saliva and regret?
Dakin didn't understand it for a long time, and to him, it was just another one of those Hector-related oddities that never made sense, but made for some interesting thought processes during his walks to and from class – ones that were not, of course, taken up by the conquering of Fiona's mighty lands.
Perhaps Hector liked the taste of his own saliva and regret. It was like this: for all that he touched so many of the boys, it was never really satisfactory – not for a single one of them, not to mention Hector himself. Just think about it – they were on a bike, moving at God knows how many miles an hour. There was just never a moment in which to stop and fully get into the swing of things, so to speak. But Hector always gave off that melancholy, "if only I had had" mood, and maybe that was what worked for him. Dakin found it depressed him too much to think about it all, and put him in a state where he could no longer remember that he wasn't Hector himself, and then he felt rotten for the rest of the day.
So, he tried not to dwell on the subjunctive if he could at all help himself. Dakin was a doer, through and through. If he wanted that cuppa, he damned well went after it.
Until, that is, the cuppa was snatched away from under him, and he was left with little else to do but try and not think about it. Of course, the taste of his own saliva and regret was stronger.
~*~*~
It would be a Sunday afternoon – long and lazy, with the sun peering through the few clouds effortlessly, as if it was master for the day.
Yes, it would – would have been – would be a Sunday, and Dakin would have nothing to do. His work would be done, his acceptance into Oxford doing all the worrying for him. He would be finished for the summer, and he would be free. He would have no chores to do, and no places to be, apart from one. He would be able to do as he pleased.
And he would be pleased to hop on a bus and then take that five minute walk over to where Irwin would be living. (He never did find out; he was going to ask him the next day, see.) It would be a faceless building, with all flats looking exactly like all the others. All the windows would be similarly sized, and some would have curtains, others would be bare and depressing, and before going in, Dakin would try and figure out which one of them could belong to Irwin. He would perform a sort of psychological analysis on Irwin's flat, and come to the conclusion that Irwin wouldn't have bothered with curtains, but he would have some kind of blinds, to keep the light away from his sensitive eyes. Yes, they would be utilitarian, and like an after-thought. "I need something to keep the lights out; I suppose these would do." (Even Irwin sometimes thought in the subjunctive; it had a draw for everyone.)
Dakin would think about what the rest of Irwin's flat be like on his way up. Irwin would live in flat 6D, and Dakin would hop up those stairs without thought to the elevator. The way up would wind him down, make him less nervous. (There would be no need to pretend otherwise – he was certain that however nervous he would be, Irwin would be twice, ten times that.)
His heart would beat to every other step he took, and he would imagine it – a bare and dark entryway; the light coming through the living room lighting the way; Irwin, in his – what would he wear? A suit, just like always? It wasn't hard to imagine, though it did boggle the mind a little bit. No, he would be wearing jeans, just like – just like that day. Yes, jeans and a button-down, with the top two buttons undone. His hair would be slightly mussed, like he had been running his hand through it for an hour before Dakin's appearance.
He would greet him, and – but, wait. (Was this subjunctive within the subjunctive? Was Dakin imagining himself imagining? Yes, he supposed he was. He supposed that was all right. He supposed there were worse things he could be imagining.)
He, Dakin, would be running up the stairs, imagining how Irwin would look upon opening that door. Would he be nervous? Yes. Would he be waiting for him? Oh, yes. There was no doubt. That thought would carry Dakin up the last flight of stairs and fling him to the correct door.
And there he would be now, standing in front of it, hands in his back pockets, pounding on the door with his foot. It was very important to make the right impression upon entry, and he would not want Irwin to mistake his intentions. He would not want Irwin to think he was there for anything but fucking.
Irwin would open the door. More cautiously than Dakin's pounding, but less hesitantly than their last conversation at school. Oh yes, he would know exactly what Dakin would be there for.
He would look just like that – slightly mussed hair, an open collar, jeans. Bare feet, when Dakin would look down, and on his way there would notice the slight anticipation at the seam of Irwin's crotch. It would make him swallow once, hard, and then grin and look back up.
Irwin would give him that look of his, and that slight smirk – the smirk that said he was smarter, knew more, but was really just a lost boy at heart. Dakin would be able to read him like a book that Sunday, read him cover to cover in the span of no time at all. He would smirk back and – walk in. He would step in, and forget about everything else that existed outside of that flat.
The world would end with the click of the lock behind him, and Irwin would turn around and walk down the (bare and dark) entryway towards the light in the next room. Dakin would follow, taking in all the details – the clothes rack, the shoe rack, all nearly empty, apart from, say, two jackets, two pairs of loafers, and – he would snigger, he just knew he would – a pair of house slippers.
He would look down at Irwin's bare feet and his snigger would die down in his throat. He would look back up at Irwin's arse, and he would – he would – he would realize that he was not there for a blow job alone, that he was – that Irwin was – that Dakin was out of his depth, that he was not the more experienced one here, not by a long shot. He would realize that Irwin will have done this before – he would have to have done this before – and not once, not by a long shot.
The thought would dry up Dakin’s throat and he would barely notice it as he would enter Irwin's living room, right on Irwin's heels. Irwin would turn around, give him a smile, and the tables would turn. Dakin would now be on Irwin's turf, with Irwin ready to conquer Dakin's lands.
Dakin would probably clam up and stuff his hands inside his pockets, and look around. He would take in the many bookshelves, filled with books in a haphazard way. No rhyme or reason – just books filled with them. A sofa, a table, no television to be seen. And blinds – he would notice the blinds, of course, because Irwin simply couldn't have curtains. He wouldn't.
Irwin would clear his throat, and say, "I was just finishing up grading your final papers, actually, when you -"
And Dakin would look over at the table and see them – their creations, with the least and most amount of effort put into them. Dakin would see his own handwriting on an open page and swallow. Of course Irwin would be grading Dakin's paper when he knew that Dakin would be arriving. It made Dakin hard just to think about it.
"What did you think?" he would gesture half-heartedly at his own work. "Up to snuff?"
And Irwin would see right through him, now that he was on his own turf, rooted feet-first into his own floor, and smirk back, saying, "Quite up to it, yes."
And then, Dakin would -
No, wait, then Irwin would -
No -
"Do you want it?" Dakin would say, taking a step closer to Irwin, his entire body ready now, and all nervousness be damned. "Do you want this?" he would whisper again, less than a foot away
from Irwin, who would -
He would -
Dakin would reach out and press a finger against Irwin's top button. He would let it slide against the top of it, touch the merest hint of skin above it – just the slightest, and he would snatch his hand away. Then he would try again, the entire time watching Irwin watching him back, and this time, his hands would go to Irwin's waist and grab hold of his shirt on either sides of his body. He would drag him closer.
His cock would pulsate in his jeans, he would be so hard and he would – he would push Irwin -
No, Irwin would – reach up and – oh, yes; he would reach up and slide his glasses off, tossing them carelessly onto the nearby table. He would look strange for a minute, like a man who's forgotten his purpose, but Dakin – Dakin would remind him. He would take one final step, and bring his foot in between Irwin's. He would invade his space, and meld their spaces two, together.
Then he would slide his hands down Irwin's sides and he would look down. He would see Irwin standing there, hard and ready, right up against Dakin, and it would be him and Irwin and then it would happen.
Irwin would slide down, slowly, and then he would be on his knees, on his own floor, his face right in front of Dakin's crotch. Dakin would look down at him, and watch as Irwin undid his button, and then – then he would undo his zipper, and then there would be no stopping him. He would shove Dakin's jeans down, along with his shorts, and he would -
His face would be red, and his eyes would be wide open before taking Dakin in, and then they'd be closed. Dakin would bury his hand in Irwin's hair, and he would bury his cock in Irwin's mouth, and he would – he would fuck his face with it, he would moan and pant and Irwin would be breathing hard – hard, through his nose, grabbing at Dakin's hips, sliding his hands slippery down Dakin's ass, grabbing it, and they would both shake, right there, in the complete and utter stillness of Irwin's flat on a Sunday afternoon.
Dakin wouldn't say anything, not a word. He would simply feel Irwin's mouth, expert, oh God, it would be so expert, sliding up and down his cock, sucking him off with precision, and with desire, and it would be nothing, nothing at all like – like anything else. It would be hard, and fast, like a bullet to the chest, and Dakin knew, he simply knew, that he would come in mere minutes. And he knew that Irwin would take it, would take all of it in his clever, in his prim-and-proper mouth, and then slide up and away and pant, still on his knees, his button-down now somehow opened half-way down his torso, hands on his thighs. And Dakin would hitch up his shorts and his jeans and he would stand and pant himself while Irwin would -
He would -
Oh, fuck it. Irwin would get up, fast, Dakin wouldn't even realize it at first, and then he would grab Dakin by the collar and kiss him, hard, just as hard as he'd been given only seconds before, tasting so strange and unfamiliar and strong. Dakin knew, he knew that he would grab him back, and tear open his shirt, and topple them both to the sofa, legs wedged between legs, humping, grabbing, stroking -
Moaning, they would –
~*~*~
Dakin knew that he wasn't queer. He knew that Irwin was. He knew that anybody male and even remotely queer would always go for him (and did that mean that was his desire? The "would go" versus the "always went" – did that signify any particular change in mood or disposition for him, or was it merely a figure of speech? Dakin filed the notion away for a later date examination), and he knew that it would always be that way (see, again, in regards to later examinations).
Dakin also knew several other things. He knew that he had just come twice in a rather short amount of time, and it was good that he was, after all, alone in his house.
He knew that Irwin was no longer in Sheffield at all.
He knew that Hector was dead.
It had never occurred to Dakin to wonder what life would be like with Hector dead. Hector, in Dakin's mind, had to live on as long as the school did; he was an institution.
It had never occurred to Dakin that he may have been slightly more queer than he had ever anticipated. Dakin, in Dakin's mind, was as straight-laced as they came, really; he was just a regular guy.
It had never occurred to Dakin that Irwin would have been his first; "would", of course, the word upon which all the other words hung. Because it had never actually happened; and it never would. One could, perhaps, see that “never” as an indication of Dakin's true desire, perhaps a sort of a relief – an out of a situation he might not have been able to follow through on; but no. The "never would" was an ending to something that Dakin had desired; had asked for.
It would always live in the subjunctive – the wishing tense.
I would like to have had Irwin suck me off.
A wish that left him feeling empty, tasting both his anticipation, and his regret. It left him lying in his small bed, sprawled naked on a Sunday afternoon, with cloudless skies letting sunshine into his empty room, with tissues all around him. He was suspended in the wish, his moment. His one moment in le subjunctive, he heard Hector say.
Dakin didn't know whether or not it mattered, really. He could have had a blow job; it didn't come to pass. He didn't know what that made him, but he was Dakin, which made him know one thing for sure: he would certainly be all right.
And Irwin would live on, however able, and forget the promise he had made to a school boy on the spur of the moment, just as one forgets an appointment missed. Cross that one off the to-do list.
And Hector? Well. Dakin knew this one, too: Hector would have been proud. After all – le subjunctif was his favorite moment. He would have been happy that Dakin had finally understood.
Author:
mrsronweasleyFandom: "The History Boys"
Pairing: Dakin/Irwin
Summary: Dakin thinks in the subjunctive. (~2700, Rated R)
Notes: With many thanks to
queenriley for beta-reading! All the remaining mistakes are mine. Written because I just can't get these guys out of my mind. Hector had always loved the subjunctive; it was his tense. It took Dakin a long time to hit upon the why, exactly.
Why did "I would enjoy a cuppa very much, thank you" sound so much better to him than, "I enjoyed my cuppa very much, ta"? Didn't Hector want to enjoy his cuppa? What was wrong with having had it, and then missed it, than anticipating something that might never even come? What if somebody just snatched the damned cuppa from out of his grasp, and all he was left with was the taste of his own saliva and regret?
Dakin didn't understand it for a long time, and to him, it was just another one of those Hector-related oddities that never made sense, but made for some interesting thought processes during his walks to and from class – ones that were not, of course, taken up by the conquering of Fiona's mighty lands.
Perhaps Hector liked the taste of his own saliva and regret. It was like this: for all that he touched so many of the boys, it was never really satisfactory – not for a single one of them, not to mention Hector himself. Just think about it – they were on a bike, moving at God knows how many miles an hour. There was just never a moment in which to stop and fully get into the swing of things, so to speak. But Hector always gave off that melancholy, "if only I had had" mood, and maybe that was what worked for him. Dakin found it depressed him too much to think about it all, and put him in a state where he could no longer remember that he wasn't Hector himself, and then he felt rotten for the rest of the day.
So, he tried not to dwell on the subjunctive if he could at all help himself. Dakin was a doer, through and through. If he wanted that cuppa, he damned well went after it.
Until, that is, the cuppa was snatched away from under him, and he was left with little else to do but try and not think about it. Of course, the taste of his own saliva and regret was stronger.
It would be a Sunday afternoon – long and lazy, with the sun peering through the few clouds effortlessly, as if it was master for the day.
Yes, it would – would have been – would be a Sunday, and Dakin would have nothing to do. His work would be done, his acceptance into Oxford doing all the worrying for him. He would be finished for the summer, and he would be free. He would have no chores to do, and no places to be, apart from one. He would be able to do as he pleased.
And he would be pleased to hop on a bus and then take that five minute walk over to where Irwin would be living. (He never did find out; he was going to ask him the next day, see.) It would be a faceless building, with all flats looking exactly like all the others. All the windows would be similarly sized, and some would have curtains, others would be bare and depressing, and before going in, Dakin would try and figure out which one of them could belong to Irwin. He would perform a sort of psychological analysis on Irwin's flat, and come to the conclusion that Irwin wouldn't have bothered with curtains, but he would have some kind of blinds, to keep the light away from his sensitive eyes. Yes, they would be utilitarian, and like an after-thought. "I need something to keep the lights out; I suppose these would do." (Even Irwin sometimes thought in the subjunctive; it had a draw for everyone.)
Dakin would think about what the rest of Irwin's flat be like on his way up. Irwin would live in flat 6D, and Dakin would hop up those stairs without thought to the elevator. The way up would wind him down, make him less nervous. (There would be no need to pretend otherwise – he was certain that however nervous he would be, Irwin would be twice, ten times that.)
His heart would beat to every other step he took, and he would imagine it – a bare and dark entryway; the light coming through the living room lighting the way; Irwin, in his – what would he wear? A suit, just like always? It wasn't hard to imagine, though it did boggle the mind a little bit. No, he would be wearing jeans, just like – just like that day. Yes, jeans and a button-down, with the top two buttons undone. His hair would be slightly mussed, like he had been running his hand through it for an hour before Dakin's appearance.
He would greet him, and – but, wait. (Was this subjunctive within the subjunctive? Was Dakin imagining himself imagining? Yes, he supposed he was. He supposed that was all right. He supposed there were worse things he could be imagining.)
He, Dakin, would be running up the stairs, imagining how Irwin would look upon opening that door. Would he be nervous? Yes. Would he be waiting for him? Oh, yes. There was no doubt. That thought would carry Dakin up the last flight of stairs and fling him to the correct door.
And there he would be now, standing in front of it, hands in his back pockets, pounding on the door with his foot. It was very important to make the right impression upon entry, and he would not want Irwin to mistake his intentions. He would not want Irwin to think he was there for anything but fucking.
Irwin would open the door. More cautiously than Dakin's pounding, but less hesitantly than their last conversation at school. Oh yes, he would know exactly what Dakin would be there for.
He would look just like that – slightly mussed hair, an open collar, jeans. Bare feet, when Dakin would look down, and on his way there would notice the slight anticipation at the seam of Irwin's crotch. It would make him swallow once, hard, and then grin and look back up.
Irwin would give him that look of his, and that slight smirk – the smirk that said he was smarter, knew more, but was really just a lost boy at heart. Dakin would be able to read him like a book that Sunday, read him cover to cover in the span of no time at all. He would smirk back and – walk in. He would step in, and forget about everything else that existed outside of that flat.
The world would end with the click of the lock behind him, and Irwin would turn around and walk down the (bare and dark) entryway towards the light in the next room. Dakin would follow, taking in all the details – the clothes rack, the shoe rack, all nearly empty, apart from, say, two jackets, two pairs of loafers, and – he would snigger, he just knew he would – a pair of house slippers.
He would look down at Irwin's bare feet and his snigger would die down in his throat. He would look back up at Irwin's arse, and he would – he would – he would realize that he was not there for a blow job alone, that he was – that Irwin was – that Dakin was out of his depth, that he was not the more experienced one here, not by a long shot. He would realize that Irwin will have done this before – he would have to have done this before – and not once, not by a long shot.
The thought would dry up Dakin’s throat and he would barely notice it as he would enter Irwin's living room, right on Irwin's heels. Irwin would turn around, give him a smile, and the tables would turn. Dakin would now be on Irwin's turf, with Irwin ready to conquer Dakin's lands.
Dakin would probably clam up and stuff his hands inside his pockets, and look around. He would take in the many bookshelves, filled with books in a haphazard way. No rhyme or reason – just books filled with them. A sofa, a table, no television to be seen. And blinds – he would notice the blinds, of course, because Irwin simply couldn't have curtains. He wouldn't.
Irwin would clear his throat, and say, "I was just finishing up grading your final papers, actually, when you -"
And Dakin would look over at the table and see them – their creations, with the least and most amount of effort put into them. Dakin would see his own handwriting on an open page and swallow. Of course Irwin would be grading Dakin's paper when he knew that Dakin would be arriving. It made Dakin hard just to think about it.
"What did you think?" he would gesture half-heartedly at his own work. "Up to snuff?"
And Irwin would see right through him, now that he was on his own turf, rooted feet-first into his own floor, and smirk back, saying, "Quite up to it, yes."
And then, Dakin would -
No, wait, then Irwin would -
No -
"Do you want it?" Dakin would say, taking a step closer to Irwin, his entire body ready now, and all nervousness be damned. "Do you want this?" he would whisper again, less than a foot away
from Irwin, who would -
He would -
Dakin would reach out and press a finger against Irwin's top button. He would let it slide against the top of it, touch the merest hint of skin above it – just the slightest, and he would snatch his hand away. Then he would try again, the entire time watching Irwin watching him back, and this time, his hands would go to Irwin's waist and grab hold of his shirt on either sides of his body. He would drag him closer.
His cock would pulsate in his jeans, he would be so hard and he would – he would push Irwin -
No, Irwin would – reach up and – oh, yes; he would reach up and slide his glasses off, tossing them carelessly onto the nearby table. He would look strange for a minute, like a man who's forgotten his purpose, but Dakin – Dakin would remind him. He would take one final step, and bring his foot in between Irwin's. He would invade his space, and meld their spaces two, together.
Then he would slide his hands down Irwin's sides and he would look down. He would see Irwin standing there, hard and ready, right up against Dakin, and it would be him and Irwin and then it would happen.
Irwin would slide down, slowly, and then he would be on his knees, on his own floor, his face right in front of Dakin's crotch. Dakin would look down at him, and watch as Irwin undid his button, and then – then he would undo his zipper, and then there would be no stopping him. He would shove Dakin's jeans down, along with his shorts, and he would -
His face would be red, and his eyes would be wide open before taking Dakin in, and then they'd be closed. Dakin would bury his hand in Irwin's hair, and he would bury his cock in Irwin's mouth, and he would – he would fuck his face with it, he would moan and pant and Irwin would be breathing hard – hard, through his nose, grabbing at Dakin's hips, sliding his hands slippery down Dakin's ass, grabbing it, and they would both shake, right there, in the complete and utter stillness of Irwin's flat on a Sunday afternoon.
Dakin wouldn't say anything, not a word. He would simply feel Irwin's mouth, expert, oh God, it would be so expert, sliding up and down his cock, sucking him off with precision, and with desire, and it would be nothing, nothing at all like – like anything else. It would be hard, and fast, like a bullet to the chest, and Dakin knew, he simply knew, that he would come in mere minutes. And he knew that Irwin would take it, would take all of it in his clever, in his prim-and-proper mouth, and then slide up and away and pant, still on his knees, his button-down now somehow opened half-way down his torso, hands on his thighs. And Dakin would hitch up his shorts and his jeans and he would stand and pant himself while Irwin would -
He would -
Oh, fuck it. Irwin would get up, fast, Dakin wouldn't even realize it at first, and then he would grab Dakin by the collar and kiss him, hard, just as hard as he'd been given only seconds before, tasting so strange and unfamiliar and strong. Dakin knew, he knew that he would grab him back, and tear open his shirt, and topple them both to the sofa, legs wedged between legs, humping, grabbing, stroking -
Moaning, they would –
Dakin knew that he wasn't queer. He knew that Irwin was. He knew that anybody male and even remotely queer would always go for him (and did that mean that was his desire? The "would go" versus the "always went" – did that signify any particular change in mood or disposition for him, or was it merely a figure of speech? Dakin filed the notion away for a later date examination), and he knew that it would always be that way (see, again, in regards to later examinations).
Dakin also knew several other things. He knew that he had just come twice in a rather short amount of time, and it was good that he was, after all, alone in his house.
He knew that Irwin was no longer in Sheffield at all.
He knew that Hector was dead.
It had never occurred to Dakin to wonder what life would be like with Hector dead. Hector, in Dakin's mind, had to live on as long as the school did; he was an institution.
It had never occurred to Dakin that he may have been slightly more queer than he had ever anticipated. Dakin, in Dakin's mind, was as straight-laced as they came, really; he was just a regular guy.
It had never occurred to Dakin that Irwin would have been his first; "would", of course, the word upon which all the other words hung. Because it had never actually happened; and it never would. One could, perhaps, see that “never” as an indication of Dakin's true desire, perhaps a sort of a relief – an out of a situation he might not have been able to follow through on; but no. The "never would" was an ending to something that Dakin had desired; had asked for.
It would always live in the subjunctive – the wishing tense.
I would like to have had Irwin suck me off.
A wish that left him feeling empty, tasting both his anticipation, and his regret. It left him lying in his small bed, sprawled naked on a Sunday afternoon, with cloudless skies letting sunshine into his empty room, with tissues all around him. He was suspended in the wish, his moment. His one moment in le subjunctive, he heard Hector say.
Dakin didn't know whether or not it mattered, really. He could have had a blow job; it didn't come to pass. He didn't know what that made him, but he was Dakin, which made him know one thing for sure: he would certainly be all right.
And Irwin would live on, however able, and forget the promise he had made to a school boy on the spur of the moment, just as one forgets an appointment missed. Cross that one off the to-do list.
And Hector? Well. Dakin knew this one, too: Hector would have been proud. After all – le subjunctif was his favorite moment. He would have been happy that Dakin had finally understood.