History Catches Up (Irwin/Dakin, R)
Title: History Catches Up
Pairing: Irwin/Dakin
Rating: R
Word Count: 539
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alan Bennett's.
Summary: Irwin was never in love with Dakin.
Notes: A teenyfic gift from celandineb to westernredcedar with the prompt "wonderful".


When they were at Cutlers', Irwin wasn't in love with the boy. Dakin.

No. He was distracted by Dakin's smirk, his attitude, his confidence, his eyelashes, but he wasn't in love with the boy. He might have pulled himself off a time or two to the thought of Dakin squirming underneath him, panting out oh sir as he came, his perfect hair dishevelled and sweaty, his pink mouth rounded in an oh as Irwin ohgod came inside him. Might have. But it was purely sexual, wasn't it? The boy reeked of sex—surely Irwin wasn't the only one who had ever thought as much.

His prick was in lust with the idea of sucking Dakin off, and Dakin then returning the favour, in Irwin's flat or in the gents' at a pub or, hell, in the classroom right that instant.

And then Dakin actually suggested it.

And Irwin nearly swallowed his tongue, and then, oh god, the boy was suddenly so close, and Irwin's cock stirred in his pants, and yesnoyesnoyesno alternated in his brain like electrical currents, and he fumbled for his diary, and Dakin sneered at him and fuck that shouldn't have been arousing.

And now he's a fucking cripple, and flashes of self-pity and regret do no good, and he banishes them from his thoughts as often as he possibly can. And he does his show, and sometimes (he would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes, oh god) he wonders if the boy is watching. If Dakin is watching, or if he's ever spied Irwin whilst sucking someone off or being sucked off, bored and restless with nothing else to do, the telly flickering in the background on a Tuesday night.

And he's still not in love with the boy. But maybe, he admits to himself some solitary nights, maybe he's in love with the memory of him, the history, the idea—the ideal.

He's not prepared for the telephone call one day when he's wheeling himself out of the studio. The receptionist catches him just as he reaches the front doors.

It's his history catching up with him.

When they meet for drinks (actual drinks, just drinks, maybe more than drinks) in a pub near Irwin's flat, Dakin stumbles as he stops short and stares.

"I didn't know you were—still—" he says by way of greeting, gesturing to Irwin's chair and swallowing hard. "On the telly, they only show—I mean—"

"Does it make a difference?" Irwin asks.

Dakin meets his eyes and cocks his head to the side, and Irwin waits, remembering that gesture from years ago.

"No," Dakin says, making as if to seat himself across the table, then shrugging and pulling out the chair next to Irwin's. "Not at all." He sticks out a hand, then, and Irwin takes it, and they both hold on a little too long.

"How are you, really?" Dakin asks, and a smile spreads over Irwin's face before he can stop it.

"Wonderful," he replies, not ready to stop the effusion that bubbles up from nowhere, "Absolutely wonderful."