Overtures, by brewsternorth
Rated R, for strongly implied m/m slash and nudity.
Featuring: The Eighth Doctor and Karl Sadeghi, from kateorman's The Year of Intelligent Tigers.
Length: 275 words approx.
Karl Sadeghi came to his senses slowly and painfully.
The sun was already high in the Hitchemian sky, slanting directly into the apartment. The stuffy heat from the solar gain was only relieved by an open window through which could be heard someone in the street below belting out Va, pensiero in ragtime.
As for Karl, the sensory assault of these combined with the night before had left him not merely headachey but entirely exhausted. He felt as though he’d grappled with a tornado, and the state of his bedclothes seemed to agree. It had been a good party, even if he couldn’t recall some of it.
Almost before he was conscious enough to get up and walk, he’d taken the vague decision to shower, and staggered on still not-quite-cooperative legs across the few steps required.
He had been convinced that the sound of falling water was a trick of his ears. But the shower was already taken. A stranger – no, the violinist from last night – stood under the feeble spray, half-turned away from Karl. He stared, dumbly, his wayward brain thinking of Bach. There was a mathematical rightness to the lean musculature in those shoulders as they worked. Long, sinewy fingers were teasing their way through still-longer hair the colour of cherry-wood, steering it away from a statuary jaw -
The violinist was staring back at him, his gaze unblinking. After a few moments, his expression composed itself into one of wry amusement.
“Karl,” said the violinist, “I thought you made concerti, not overtures.”