So the thing with the GR Master, I imagine, is that at a certain point down the line in their relationship, the only time he really acts tender and vulnerable is when he’s singing. Even if he’s coked out of his mind or they’re in the middle of a massive fight offstage, when the Master gets in front of an audience and takes the mic, all of it strips away like wrapping paper off of a package, and there he is again — cradled beneath all those layers, hidden except during these performances — the boy the Doctor fell in love with, the one he was trying to build a life and career with.
The Doctor should’ve left long before he did, long before things between them went nuclear, but every time they were onstage together and every time he saw the Master singing, he had hope. And if there’s one thing the Doctor needs, one thing he lives on, it’s hope.
YES. I think the same thing was probably true of the drugs at the beginning, tidy little bumps of white powder off the kitchen table and the Master seems like himself again, dragging the Doctor outside on a bright sunny Sunday morning — guitars in tow — to busk on the corner, just for a laugh, grinning and flirting with mums when their kids stop to listen, charming little old ladies with Sinatra, slinging an arm around the Doctor’s shoulders to belt out songs they haven’t sung since they were kids.
And less frantic things, too, passing back and forth that bright blue pipe they bought in Amsterdam, sticky with resin and clouded over now, the thick, rich smell of weed soaking every inch of the flat, and the Master sprawled bonelessly upside down on the sofa, nosing into the cuff of the Doctor’s jeans, twisting backward to set the pipe on the coffee table and slipping his hand into the Doctor’s, tugging himself up and tugging the Doctor down until they’re nothing but a warm tangle of limbs, all syrup slow and wet, deep kisses.
And it’s fine, it’s good, they’re having a great time, together, but it creeps in corners now, the way the Master starts to do them all on his own, the Doctor coming home to the flat in disarray, the Master with bloodshot eyes and spoiling for a fight, empty pill bottles and licked clean bags, needles and benders and so many arguments, the drugs fueling fights, and the fights fueling drugs, and then they’re not talking anywhere but on stage, and it’s not conversation at all, but, like you said, it’s something.