reverence.
The History Boys.
Irwin. Posner. Bruckner and the values of teaching.
I am awful. (What else is new?)
Although considered something of a celebrity, Irwin's not often approached by strangers when in public, whether out dining at low-key but expensive restaurants or running errands; something for which he is quite grateful. Oh, there's the occasional spotted schoolboy (or girl), pen poised and hoping to score extra credit with teacher for snagging a different perspective on an essay, or the gushing blue rinses who grasp his arm with maternal pride, excited at the chance to even speak with someone who's been on the telly, but otherwise, it's fairly smooth sailing when he goes out for milk or bread or the indulgent bottle of Port.
At the corner chemist on a quiet Saturday, it is not someone who recognises him, but he who recognises someone else; no BBC celebrity, but David Posner, hair impossibly blond under the glare of flourescent lights, the tired way he smiles the only indication that he's aged at all. Small talk is inevitable - the programme's fine, thanks; yes, the non-adhesive work best for cuts, I find - and he's surprised to find himself falling into a comfortable rhythm he hasn't remembered since the private talks he used to have with his former student, all those years ago. Conversations about a strict father, earnest university ambitions, the unspoken pain of unrequited love.
He's not sure what makes him do it. A subconscious yearning for familiarity or nostalgia, maybe, yet more likely looking to fill the ache for company that only awkward luncheons arranged by producers barely ebbed away the past few months. It doesn't matter, because not after long, Posner's seated in his living room on the couch (a László, formerly William Wyler's, bought at an auction), fidgeting, hands clasped on his lap.
Irwin imagines he looks as austere as the monks he talks about on his programme (severe side part, stiff-shouldered), and chalks this up as the reason for the boy's - no, not boy (not anymore) - young man's darting glances around the room. A glass of red sits on the coffee table, virtually untouched, and Irwin regards him from over the rim of his own glass as he takes another sip.
"Something wrong?"
Posner startles at that, snapped out some private reverie, but quickly recovers. "No, I was--" He meets Irwin's eyes. "Actually, yes. It's too... it's too quiet in here, I suppose. I feel like I can hear my own thoughts echoing off the walls." Irwin raises an eyebrow and Posner shrugs, embarrassed, his hasty apology interrupted by, "We can put on something, if you'd like."
He moves to sort through his records in the box by the television, throwing a crooked smile over his shoulder at Posner who returns it, a touch awkwardly.
"Let's see... I've not any Mozart, surprisingly, but I am somehow in possession of Wings' Wild Life, if you can believe that... if you can stand some shrill opera, a senile aunt of mine quite enjoys sending me more of that than I know what to d--"
"Do you have any Tippett?" Posner asks. Before Irwin can reply, he adds, "Or Bruckner, perhaps?"
Irwin begins flipping through, obligingly, to find the scratched copy of Bruckner's Symphony No. 9 before suddenly remembering the mock interviews, his own insistence on why being different made you more special in the eyes of the dons; the ideal candidate, even hobbies tailored to fit that ideal, including one's taste in music, and who better to pretend to like than--
"Clever," he says.
Posner averts his gaze. "Am I?"
Irwin pauses, deciding on Symphony No. 9 after all, and settles it onto the dusty turntable before joining him back on the couch. "I've always thought so. Hector--" he hesitates before deciding to take the plunge. "Hector always thought so. You were the only one in your class to get a scholarship, after all."
Posner doesn't react to the mention of Hector - not visibly, at least - and for that, Irwin relaxes just a bit further. The past put into perspective, indeed.
"Did you ever like teaching us?"
The question is abrupt, and Posner flushes when Irwin turns to look at him. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude-- you don't have to answer that."
Irwin waves the apology away, distractedly, and slides down a little further in his seat, relaxing his posture.
"I did, yes. Quite a bit, actually. It--" he laughs, rubbing the bridge of his nose "--it made me feel smarter, in a sense. Smarter than I'd ever felt before, anyway. I enjoyed that. A feeling of power, not unlike that of a clueless ruler with new privileges and responsibilities." He grins, and if it weren't for the wine, he's sure he'd be looking away by now. "Call that selfish, if you like, but there it is."
Posner nods, sipping at his own wine delicately. He leans back, too, and his eyes grow brighter, more focused, as though he's about to share a secret of his own.
"I think I like it, too. Teaching, I mean. I don't know if it necessarily makes me feel smarter, but... it makes me feel wanted, I suppose." A wry smile, here. "I don't feel powerful, though. I feel useful. That's enough for me. For now, anyway."
He's not sure which part of it is more surprising; the fact that Posner's become a teacher (not so shocking at all, in retrospect), or the fact that after setting his glass down, his hand finds its way onto Irwin's left knee.
"Do you mind?" he asks, all uncertainty gone from his voice, and Irwin nearly flinches under the intensity of his gaze, just as sharp and open and curious as it had been in school.
"I-- no," he mutters, voice hoarse. "No, I don't."
"I was madly jealous of you, you know," Posner says, conversationally, as if he's not idly sliding his fingers back and forth across Irwin's expensive wool trousers. "Back in school," he adds, almost as an afterthought. As if it's not already clear.
"Dakin," Irwin says instantly, and Posner inclines his head, thoughtful.
"Well, that was obviously part of it. But also, you seemed so confident. So sure of yourself. I wanted to be like that. It was as if you knew exactly what your place in the world was and it didn't matter what happened, or what anyone else thought, for that matter."
Irwin laughs. "If only you knew."
Posner's hand is warm through the scratch of rough wool, fingers digging deeper into the fabric, and his eyes are still wide, still honest. "I never realised - you were lonely, too, weren't you?" His hand trails up just a bit further, one inch, followed by another, now dangerously close to a place that makes Irwin stare, dully, before triggering part of his brain into a delayed panic.
"You don't..." he swallows thickly, and starts over. "If this is just... don't feel obligated..." Posner's answering look shuts him up.
"I don't make a habit of following men home and wanking them off just because they're lonely, if that's what you mean," he says dryly, and that's enough to make Irwin smile until Posner's grip, soft and curious, tightens without warning, and he's suddenly hissing through his teeth, sucking in a breath and holding it, exhaling sharply when he comes a few minutes later, not realising that his eyes were shut until he opens them and finds Posner watching him closely.
"You've got lines under your eyes."
It's an observation, not an insult, and he feels his chest clench a little when Posner adds, "I wonder when I'll start getting lines under mine."
Irwin. Posner. Bruckner and the values of teaching.
I am awful. (What else is new?)
Although considered something of a celebrity, Irwin's not often approached by strangers when in public, whether out dining at low-key but expensive restaurants or running errands; something for which he is quite grateful. Oh, there's the occasional spotted schoolboy (or girl), pen poised and hoping to score extra credit with teacher for snagging a different perspective on an essay, or the gushing blue rinses who grasp his arm with maternal pride, excited at the chance to even speak with someone who's been on the telly, but otherwise, it's fairly smooth sailing when he goes out for milk or bread or the indulgent bottle of Port.
At the corner chemist on a quiet Saturday, it is not someone who recognises him, but he who recognises someone else; no BBC celebrity, but David Posner, hair impossibly blond under the glare of flourescent lights, the tired way he smiles the only indication that he's aged at all. Small talk is inevitable - the programme's fine, thanks; yes, the non-adhesive work best for cuts, I find - and he's surprised to find himself falling into a comfortable rhythm he hasn't remembered since the private talks he used to have with his former student, all those years ago. Conversations about a strict father, earnest university ambitions, the unspoken pain of unrequited love.
He's not sure what makes him do it. A subconscious yearning for familiarity or nostalgia, maybe, yet more likely looking to fill the ache for company that only awkward luncheons arranged by producers barely ebbed away the past few months. It doesn't matter, because not after long, Posner's seated in his living room on the couch (a László, formerly William Wyler's, bought at an auction), fidgeting, hands clasped on his lap.
Irwin imagines he looks as austere as the monks he talks about on his programme (severe side part, stiff-shouldered), and chalks this up as the reason for the boy's - no, not boy (not anymore) - young man's darting glances around the room. A glass of red sits on the coffee table, virtually untouched, and Irwin regards him from over the rim of his own glass as he takes another sip.
"Something wrong?"
Posner startles at that, snapped out some private reverie, but quickly recovers. "No, I was--" He meets Irwin's eyes. "Actually, yes. It's too... it's too quiet in here, I suppose. I feel like I can hear my own thoughts echoing off the walls." Irwin raises an eyebrow and Posner shrugs, embarrassed, his hasty apology interrupted by, "We can put on something, if you'd like."
He moves to sort through his records in the box by the television, throwing a crooked smile over his shoulder at Posner who returns it, a touch awkwardly.
"Let's see... I've not any Mozart, surprisingly, but I am somehow in possession of Wings' Wild Life, if you can believe that... if you can stand some shrill opera, a senile aunt of mine quite enjoys sending me more of that than I know what to d--"
"Do you have any Tippett?" Posner asks. Before Irwin can reply, he adds, "Or Bruckner, perhaps?"
Irwin begins flipping through, obligingly, to find the scratched copy of Bruckner's Symphony No. 9 before suddenly remembering the mock interviews, his own insistence on why being different made you more special in the eyes of the dons; the ideal candidate, even hobbies tailored to fit that ideal, including one's taste in music, and who better to pretend to like than--
"Clever," he says.
Posner averts his gaze. "Am I?"
Irwin pauses, deciding on Symphony No. 9 after all, and settles it onto the dusty turntable before joining him back on the couch. "I've always thought so. Hector--" he hesitates before deciding to take the plunge. "Hector always thought so. You were the only one in your class to get a scholarship, after all."
Posner doesn't react to the mention of Hector - not visibly, at least - and for that, Irwin relaxes just a bit further. The past put into perspective, indeed.
"Did you ever like teaching us?"
The question is abrupt, and Posner flushes when Irwin turns to look at him. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude-- you don't have to answer that."
Irwin waves the apology away, distractedly, and slides down a little further in his seat, relaxing his posture.
"I did, yes. Quite a bit, actually. It--" he laughs, rubbing the bridge of his nose "--it made me feel smarter, in a sense. Smarter than I'd ever felt before, anyway. I enjoyed that. A feeling of power, not unlike that of a clueless ruler with new privileges and responsibilities." He grins, and if it weren't for the wine, he's sure he'd be looking away by now. "Call that selfish, if you like, but there it is."
Posner nods, sipping at his own wine delicately. He leans back, too, and his eyes grow brighter, more focused, as though he's about to share a secret of his own.
"I think I like it, too. Teaching, I mean. I don't know if it necessarily makes me feel smarter, but... it makes me feel wanted, I suppose." A wry smile, here. "I don't feel powerful, though. I feel useful. That's enough for me. For now, anyway."
He's not sure which part of it is more surprising; the fact that Posner's become a teacher (not so shocking at all, in retrospect), or the fact that after setting his glass down, his hand finds its way onto Irwin's left knee.
"Do you mind?" he asks, all uncertainty gone from his voice, and Irwin nearly flinches under the intensity of his gaze, just as sharp and open and curious as it had been in school.
"I-- no," he mutters, voice hoarse. "No, I don't."
"I was madly jealous of you, you know," Posner says, conversationally, as if he's not idly sliding his fingers back and forth across Irwin's expensive wool trousers. "Back in school," he adds, almost as an afterthought. As if it's not already clear.
"Dakin," Irwin says instantly, and Posner inclines his head, thoughtful.
"Well, that was obviously part of it. But also, you seemed so confident. So sure of yourself. I wanted to be like that. It was as if you knew exactly what your place in the world was and it didn't matter what happened, or what anyone else thought, for that matter."
Irwin laughs. "If only you knew."
Posner's hand is warm through the scratch of rough wool, fingers digging deeper into the fabric, and his eyes are still wide, still honest. "I never realised - you were lonely, too, weren't you?" His hand trails up just a bit further, one inch, followed by another, now dangerously close to a place that makes Irwin stare, dully, before triggering part of his brain into a delayed panic.
"You don't..." he swallows thickly, and starts over. "If this is just... don't feel obligated..." Posner's answering look shuts him up.
"I don't make a habit of following men home and wanking them off just because they're lonely, if that's what you mean," he says dryly, and that's enough to make Irwin smile until Posner's grip, soft and curious, tightens without warning, and he's suddenly hissing through his teeth, sucking in a breath and holding it, exhaling sharply when he comes a few minutes later, not realising that his eyes were shut until he opens them and finds Posner watching him closely.
"You've got lines under your eyes."
It's an observation, not an insult, and he feels his chest clench a little when Posner adds, "I wonder when I'll start getting lines under mine."