His fingers smear their sweet brown gold along Hainishtymion’s nose, at which he scowls and adds, softening a fraction, “…stupid boy. Do you have any notion of how hard it is to unbrick a PVR for a discontinued TIVO? That’s what you left us with! And why don’t you know where he is out There? Because neither do we! The bloody bowtied troll won’t tell us.”
He turns to the Doctor, who is snoring loudly on his side, sprawled out on the bench still.
“Do you know,” he breathes, grabbing the blonde man by the ears and pulling him so viciously close that the air rushes out like a vacuum from between them, “...what that idiot has been through to fix your mess?”
Hainishtymion opens his pale lips, but crystal tears jettison in grand wells from his lavender eyes instead, growing into ice sculptures that ting from his cheeks and shatter on the cobbles of the old Roman road beneath them.
“Waaaah! I’m sorry I didn’t eat my tafelshrew at dinner! I’m sorry!” his handsome, windy face, suddenly boyish and so small, scrunches up like a bruised lemon, and the Master sighs down at him disapprovingly.
“… you are not a Fishpig- be grateful,” the Master says softly, grabbing the man’s ears and cupping his cheeks before shoving him away, forcing the boy to trace a line of sight toward the Doctor again.
Those young bright eyes do widen at the lines of the man sleeping fitfully on the bench, but then…