impressed by me.
The History Boys.
Dakin. Irwin. Mental tallies and classroom one-upmanship.
Title comes from the Sahara Hotnights song, which also largely inspired this. Wanted to have a go at Dakin/Irwin properly for once, so. Er. We'll see, I guess?
It isn't fucking fair. The man just can't be bought. Or should that be 'can't be sold'? Or--
--oh, fuck clichéd expressions (just another tick on the rather tiring list of things that would probably put Irwin off, come to think of it).
More and more eloquent turns of phrase deftly borrowed and scrambled from the text are inserted at key points into his essays, but he's still not trying hard enough, apparently, neither in his writing nor in debate, shot down before he can even finish his arguments, and each time he finds himself shrinking just a little in his seat, annoyed and sullen, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings to keep from just telling him to fuck off right there in class.
And it's not even like everyone's getting the same treatment, because they're not. Raised eyebrows and amused smiles are shot in Akthar's direction; Lockwood more often than not receives acquiescing (to agree, comply, consent, Posner'd read earlier that day) nods.
Even Posner, clever though he is, with those eager smiles and irritatingly puppy-ish waves of his hand during discussion, is able to draw a more positive response from the man, and Dakin catches glimpses of his essays, always brimming with shite like "excellent point" and "distinctive argument" in Irwin's signature red pen, his messy scrawl somehow sophisticated.
Private tutorials might have something to them, he thinks, and after one particularly painful day's lesson he stands in the corridor waiting to ask, feeling dully ashamed and somehow new; eleven again, gaining someone's approval for the first time, and the thought that he should even have to bother gaining anyone's approval - angry and eating away at part of him with all the subtlety of something bitterly acerbic - wars with the fact that he finds himself actually wanting to. And Irwin obliges him, of course, the smug fucker; I think it may help improve the standard of your work, he says, and ooh, sir, you're so clever, aren't you (only he really is).
It's not until a late Tuesday afternoon, the others long pushed off on their bikes home, that he stays behind for the first tutorial, scraping a chair up to Irwin's desk far more noisily than necessary. The look that Irwin gives him shows that he knows it, too, and Dakin smiles pleasantly, an eighteen-year-old saint, chalking a hash mark under his own name in his ongoing mental tally.
Irwin's voice is much softer than it is in class, somehow - not as harsh - and Dakin almost doesn't notice, probably wouldn't if he hadn't started to loosen his tie, tugging at the collar of his Oxford, and that low, steady drone on Mary of Scots wavers for a brief moment, Irwin's gaze darting guiltily away from his neck--
--and then, slowly, everything grinds to a halt, clicking into place.
He suddenly lapses into a certain smile, sly and confident - the one that won him Fiona over Lockwood's relaxed smirks and Timms' too obvious grins - and he tilts his head, conspiratorially, making sure that his fingers brush Irwin's when he reaches for his essay back. All it takes is that flushed, avoidant glance, the stiffening of shoulders, to confirm what Dakin's already long suspected, and he feels his smile push into a full-fledged grin; one that Irwin awkwardly returns.
Everything's going to be all right.
Dakin. Irwin. Mental tallies and classroom one-upmanship.
Title comes from the Sahara Hotnights song, which also largely inspired this. Wanted to have a go at Dakin/Irwin properly for once, so. Er. We'll see, I guess?
It isn't fucking fair. The man just can't be bought. Or should that be 'can't be sold'? Or--
--oh, fuck clichéd expressions (just another tick on the rather tiring list of things that would probably put Irwin off, come to think of it).
More and more eloquent turns of phrase deftly borrowed and scrambled from the text are inserted at key points into his essays, but he's still not trying hard enough, apparently, neither in his writing nor in debate, shot down before he can even finish his arguments, and each time he finds himself shrinking just a little in his seat, annoyed and sullen, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings to keep from just telling him to fuck off right there in class.
And it's not even like everyone's getting the same treatment, because they're not. Raised eyebrows and amused smiles are shot in Akthar's direction; Lockwood more often than not receives acquiescing (to agree, comply, consent, Posner'd read earlier that day) nods.
Even Posner, clever though he is, with those eager smiles and irritatingly puppy-ish waves of his hand during discussion, is able to draw a more positive response from the man, and Dakin catches glimpses of his essays, always brimming with shite like "excellent point" and "distinctive argument" in Irwin's signature red pen, his messy scrawl somehow sophisticated.
Private tutorials might have something to them, he thinks, and after one particularly painful day's lesson he stands in the corridor waiting to ask, feeling dully ashamed and somehow new; eleven again, gaining someone's approval for the first time, and the thought that he should even have to bother gaining anyone's approval - angry and eating away at part of him with all the subtlety of something bitterly acerbic - wars with the fact that he finds himself actually wanting to. And Irwin obliges him, of course, the smug fucker; I think it may help improve the standard of your work, he says, and ooh, sir, you're so clever, aren't you (only he really is).
It's not until a late Tuesday afternoon, the others long pushed off on their bikes home, that he stays behind for the first tutorial, scraping a chair up to Irwin's desk far more noisily than necessary. The look that Irwin gives him shows that he knows it, too, and Dakin smiles pleasantly, an eighteen-year-old saint, chalking a hash mark under his own name in his ongoing mental tally.
Irwin's voice is much softer than it is in class, somehow - not as harsh - and Dakin almost doesn't notice, probably wouldn't if he hadn't started to loosen his tie, tugging at the collar of his Oxford, and that low, steady drone on Mary of Scots wavers for a brief moment, Irwin's gaze darting guiltily away from his neck--
--and then, slowly, everything grinds to a halt, clicking into place.
He suddenly lapses into a certain smile, sly and confident - the one that won him Fiona over Lockwood's relaxed smirks and Timms' too obvious grins - and he tilts his head, conspiratorially, making sure that his fingers brush Irwin's when he reaches for his essay back. All it takes is that flushed, avoidant glance, the stiffening of shoulders, to confirm what Dakin's already long suspected, and he feels his smile push into a full-fledged grin; one that Irwin awkwardly returns.
Everything's going to be all right.