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midnightdiddleIt's not my fault. I blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
x_saturnine and dragon_bite. *shifty eyes*
That said, Romantic poets slash. Yes, RPS. Yes, it is Byron/Shelley/Keats, why do you ask? And yes, Severn/Keats does make me cry, how did you guess?
Italian Sun
The sun is hot and bright, and the metal of the cafe's chair is hot beneath his skin. Byron stretches, taking care to avoid the touch of burning metal to his skin, and yawns disinterestedly.
"Why, exactly," Keats asks, and his accent grates upon Byron's ears, "did you call me out here?"
"Shelley's missing his Junkets. He wants you to live with him. He'd give you every fancy of yours."
"I know," Keats says, and he's turning his face away, and Byron turns away as well, ignoring the coughing.
"I," Keats says in time, "thanked him, and turned down the request. Italy shall be good enough for me."
"He'll ask again. It kills him, to be losing his friend beneath the Italian sun." Byron leans back further in the spindly chair, and the metal burns his neck, just below where his hair falls. "Shall you turn him down again, and again? That's hardly a kindness."
"And that's why you come, to bring me back as a gift, or a pet?" Keats' face is pale, and his hands tremble where they lay upon the table.
"I would, if it'd please Shelley," Byron says carelessly, and he watches Keats' hands tremble all the more.
"I wouldn't survive the trip," Keats says, and he's turning away again, coughing. His breaths are fast and uneven, and Byron stares at the grating of the table.
"Then I shall never fetch you for Shelley?" Bryon asks, and the time has passed slowly, the sun sinking ever lower. Byron watches the passersby, and listens to Keats cough, and feels time slip on by.
"In time, I think," Keats says, and his hand glints in the sunlight, red turning yellow and gold. "I'll leave my effects for Shelley, and perhaps, you can fetch me to him, in some months time?"
Byron nods, because this will be good enough, must be good enough, and he watches Keats leave, arm about the shoulder of the man who follows Keats like a dog, fanatical and hopeful. The boat will be here soon, and Byron will at least take Keats' words to Shelley. That, at least, will be good enough.
Portrait of Life
Keats' body is pale, and thin, and Severn thinks that he should make sure Keats eats more, because Severn can count nearly every rib in Keats' chest. Keats' wrists are just as thin, and his stomach is sinking in, and Severn hates himself for how he hadn't noticed, because Keats' shirts are always a size or two larger than his body.
"Is this?" Keats asks, and Severn nods, searches for a stub of a pencil, tries to ignore the way he feels guilty, because he's promised to take care of Keats, and Keats is always taking care of him.
"Fine," Severn says, and then, "I'm always being heckled for my bodies. They're too long, they're too awkward, unnatural." Words, words, more words, because Keats' breathing is a little louder than it had been last month, and Severn can't stand the sound of blood in lungs.
"Poets and artists," Keats says, and he sounds as though he's laughing, and when Severn looks up, Keats is smiling at something else. "Such put upon creatures. We're unlucky bastards, the lot of us."
Anatomy has never been Severn's strongest point. He's better in nature, with trees and flowers and the way vines choke the buildings next door. Bodies are different, because they move so quickly, and Severn prefers the slow shift of nature to the quick temperament of man. But he draws carefully, slowly, and Keats is ever patient, standing naked in a room with a fire, away from the drafts of the windows and door.
"I," Keats begins, then coughs, turning his face away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. One minute, two, and Keats is smiling absently again, like he always smiles at Severn. "Might I see it, when you're done?"
"You can see it now," Severn says, and he rubs the stub of a pencil between his fingers. "I'm done, I think, and--" Keats is standing beside him, skin a little cool, and Severn cannot speak, for the feel of skin against his.
"Is that," Keats asks, "truly how I look?" He sounds slightly put-upon, and ever so disappointed, and Severn wants to burn the world.
"I," Severn says, and, "what?"
"Like a boy," Keats says, and he leans down closer, pressing a finger on the edge of the drawing. "I look like a little boy. I thought I'd be a man, before I died."
"I," Severn says again, and the pencil stub slips from his fingers, falls to the carpets.
"Perhaps," Keats says, in that careless manner he has, where his words drop like petals, a poet's mouth and an artist's hands, "perhaps I will be reborn, and then I might be a man. A tall lord, perhaps, or at least one not quite so wretched as I am now."
There is nothing for Severn to say, for his words have always sounded heavy and dull to his ears, like mud next to Keats' words, and he would not put his words in this room, where Keats creates a world of perfection and eternity and phoenix rising from the ashes, because all the world is burning down, for want of Keats.
"I apologize." Keats' hand is hot against the side of Severn's neck. "I don't mean to worry you." Keats' mouth is hotter still, against Severn's temple, and then the air is cold, for Keats is ever walking away.
"I thank you, my friend."
Upon a Pillow
"Is this alright?" Keats asks, and his hands are hot on Severn's body, eyes fever-bright. Severn twists upon the bedsheets, trying to get closer, because he's not close enough, and trying to get further away, because the room is too hot, as is his skin, and Keats'.
"Fine," Severn says, and he grabs Keats' arms, watches his fingertips press against Keats' skin. His fingers are smudged, stained with oils and charcoal, and the smudges look like bruises on Keats' skin. "Fine, and--"
Keats' hands are a little clumsy, and his breath is ragged in Severn's ear, so Severn catches Keats' wrist, pulls Keats' hand in, and down, and around, and their legs are tangling the bedsheets.
"Like this," Severn says, and he never thought he'd teach someone such a thing, because this is something poor schoolboys do for extra money in London, not something that disciples teach their gods.
Keats' breath explodes against Severn's neck, wet and hot and a little gasp on the end, slinking up, and Severn pushes, and pulls, and turns them upon their sides, so Keats can be pulled closer, and tighter, and in, and--
"There," Severn says, and the word breaks apart in the middle, just like Severn is breaking apart. "There, and-- I--"
Keats' hair curls across his face, into his eyes, and Severn forces himself closer, and the sweat is slick between them, and Keats' hair catches about Severn's fingers.
"Please," Keats groans against Severn's skin, and Severn wants to give him everything, tear down the world, build it up again, a chapel and a temple to Keats, but he can't, and so Severn hates himself more than anything.
"You," Severn murmurs, and when Keats shatters, Severn watches him, and catches him, and bundles him in the best Severn will ever be able to offer. It burns, catching Keats upon his skin, but he won't let Keats fall and drown, and so he bears it, because Keats is a cross that Severn will always want.
When the morning comes, there is blood upon the pillow.
Also, I want this more than life. How did I never see it? O:
x_saturnine and dragon_bite. *shifty eyes*That said, Romantic poets slash. Yes, RPS. Yes, it is Byron/Shelley/Keats, why do you ask? And yes, Severn/Keats does make me cry, how did you guess?
Italian Sun
The sun is hot and bright, and the metal of the cafe's chair is hot beneath his skin. Byron stretches, taking care to avoid the touch of burning metal to his skin, and yawns disinterestedly.
"Why, exactly," Keats asks, and his accent grates upon Byron's ears, "did you call me out here?"
"Shelley's missing his Junkets. He wants you to live with him. He'd give you every fancy of yours."
"I know," Keats says, and he's turning his face away, and Byron turns away as well, ignoring the coughing.
"I," Keats says in time, "thanked him, and turned down the request. Italy shall be good enough for me."
"He'll ask again. It kills him, to be losing his friend beneath the Italian sun." Byron leans back further in the spindly chair, and the metal burns his neck, just below where his hair falls. "Shall you turn him down again, and again? That's hardly a kindness."
"And that's why you come, to bring me back as a gift, or a pet?" Keats' face is pale, and his hands tremble where they lay upon the table.
"I would, if it'd please Shelley," Byron says carelessly, and he watches Keats' hands tremble all the more.
"I wouldn't survive the trip," Keats says, and he's turning away again, coughing. His breaths are fast and uneven, and Byron stares at the grating of the table.
"Then I shall never fetch you for Shelley?" Bryon asks, and the time has passed slowly, the sun sinking ever lower. Byron watches the passersby, and listens to Keats cough, and feels time slip on by.
"In time, I think," Keats says, and his hand glints in the sunlight, red turning yellow and gold. "I'll leave my effects for Shelley, and perhaps, you can fetch me to him, in some months time?"
Byron nods, because this will be good enough, must be good enough, and he watches Keats leave, arm about the shoulder of the man who follows Keats like a dog, fanatical and hopeful. The boat will be here soon, and Byron will at least take Keats' words to Shelley. That, at least, will be good enough.
Portrait of Life
Keats' body is pale, and thin, and Severn thinks that he should make sure Keats eats more, because Severn can count nearly every rib in Keats' chest. Keats' wrists are just as thin, and his stomach is sinking in, and Severn hates himself for how he hadn't noticed, because Keats' shirts are always a size or two larger than his body.
"Is this?" Keats asks, and Severn nods, searches for a stub of a pencil, tries to ignore the way he feels guilty, because he's promised to take care of Keats, and Keats is always taking care of him.
"Fine," Severn says, and then, "I'm always being heckled for my bodies. They're too long, they're too awkward, unnatural." Words, words, more words, because Keats' breathing is a little louder than it had been last month, and Severn can't stand the sound of blood in lungs.
"Poets and artists," Keats says, and he sounds as though he's laughing, and when Severn looks up, Keats is smiling at something else. "Such put upon creatures. We're unlucky bastards, the lot of us."
Anatomy has never been Severn's strongest point. He's better in nature, with trees and flowers and the way vines choke the buildings next door. Bodies are different, because they move so quickly, and Severn prefers the slow shift of nature to the quick temperament of man. But he draws carefully, slowly, and Keats is ever patient, standing naked in a room with a fire, away from the drafts of the windows and door.
"I," Keats begins, then coughs, turning his face away, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. One minute, two, and Keats is smiling absently again, like he always smiles at Severn. "Might I see it, when you're done?"
"You can see it now," Severn says, and he rubs the stub of a pencil between his fingers. "I'm done, I think, and--" Keats is standing beside him, skin a little cool, and Severn cannot speak, for the feel of skin against his.
"Is that," Keats asks, "truly how I look?" He sounds slightly put-upon, and ever so disappointed, and Severn wants to burn the world.
"I," Severn says, and, "what?"
"Like a boy," Keats says, and he leans down closer, pressing a finger on the edge of the drawing. "I look like a little boy. I thought I'd be a man, before I died."
"I," Severn says again, and the pencil stub slips from his fingers, falls to the carpets.
"Perhaps," Keats says, in that careless manner he has, where his words drop like petals, a poet's mouth and an artist's hands, "perhaps I will be reborn, and then I might be a man. A tall lord, perhaps, or at least one not quite so wretched as I am now."
There is nothing for Severn to say, for his words have always sounded heavy and dull to his ears, like mud next to Keats' words, and he would not put his words in this room, where Keats creates a world of perfection and eternity and phoenix rising from the ashes, because all the world is burning down, for want of Keats.
"I apologize." Keats' hand is hot against the side of Severn's neck. "I don't mean to worry you." Keats' mouth is hotter still, against Severn's temple, and then the air is cold, for Keats is ever walking away.
"I thank you, my friend."
Upon a Pillow
"Is this alright?" Keats asks, and his hands are hot on Severn's body, eyes fever-bright. Severn twists upon the bedsheets, trying to get closer, because he's not close enough, and trying to get further away, because the room is too hot, as is his skin, and Keats'.
"Fine," Severn says, and he grabs Keats' arms, watches his fingertips press against Keats' skin. His fingers are smudged, stained with oils and charcoal, and the smudges look like bruises on Keats' skin. "Fine, and--"
Keats' hands are a little clumsy, and his breath is ragged in Severn's ear, so Severn catches Keats' wrist, pulls Keats' hand in, and down, and around, and their legs are tangling the bedsheets.
"Like this," Severn says, and he never thought he'd teach someone such a thing, because this is something poor schoolboys do for extra money in London, not something that disciples teach their gods.
Keats' breath explodes against Severn's neck, wet and hot and a little gasp on the end, slinking up, and Severn pushes, and pulls, and turns them upon their sides, so Keats can be pulled closer, and tighter, and in, and--
"There," Severn says, and the word breaks apart in the middle, just like Severn is breaking apart. "There, and-- I--"
Keats' hair curls across his face, into his eyes, and Severn forces himself closer, and the sweat is slick between them, and Keats' hair catches about Severn's fingers.
"Please," Keats groans against Severn's skin, and Severn wants to give him everything, tear down the world, build it up again, a chapel and a temple to Keats, but he can't, and so Severn hates himself more than anything.
"You," Severn murmurs, and when Keats shatters, Severn watches him, and catches him, and bundles him in the best Severn will ever be able to offer. It burns, catching Keats upon his skin, but he won't let Keats fall and drown, and so he bears it, because Keats is a cross that Severn will always want.
When the morning comes, there is blood upon the pillow.
Also, I want this more than life. How did I never see it? O:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-04-10 07:29 pm (UTC)I don't know if there's a T.S. shirt, but there's a Shelley one, too. *flails*
no subject
Date: 2007-04-10 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-10 08:17 pm (UTC)*and clicks*