Winter 1872
October 1872, Cambridge
Pellinore Warthrop sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. He was on what he thought must be his sixth cup of tea. He had been in this cafe for more than four hours and he was still no closer to writing anything he could stand to reread.
He finished his tea and leaned back in his chair, stretching out the kinks in his back. He shoved his papers and inkpen back into his bag, too frustrated to look at them. He needed something to write about. Something new.
He looked about the cafe, hoping to distract himself from his own shortcomings.
The cafe was not full by any means, but quite busy for four o'clock in the afternoon.
A gaggle of women sat in a sunlit booth, filling the air with giggles and their high fluting voices. Another student, such as Pellinore, not far from him. He had met the student before but could not recall his name, Clifford perhaps. A man and a woman were closeted near to Pellinore, their chattering and love sighs had been grating at him for more than thirty minutes. And there was a boy.
It was the boy who caught his eye. Young man, maybe, it was difficult to tell. The boy flicked back his tousled hair, a dappled blonde. It was rather short, just long enough to fall over his forehead. His face was soft and cherubic. Handsome was not the word Pellinore would have chosen to use, for the boy was so slender he nearly girlishly so, pretty was closer. But it was his seating arrangement that had caught Pellinore's attention. He sat atop the bar at the far end, his back reclined against the wall. One of his legs was drawn up to his chest, the other swinging idly over the side of the bar.
The cafe owner had clearly given him license to do it for he had not been told to get down although the owner was quite nearby. Most curious of all, and the reason Pellinore's gaze continued to linger, was the kitchen knife he was holding in his delicate fingers, tapping the blade softly against his pouting lips. The weapon seemed out of place against a countenance such as his.
"Hey, boy, there," the owner, a Mr. Placardy, said gruffly to the boy, his broad finger lifting to point into a dark corner of the cafe.
"Yes, I see it," the boy drawled. He sounded momentously bored.
His hand flickered so fast Pellinore nearly missed it. The knife spun from his fingers and thudded, with a squelch, into the corner where the owner had pointed. Pellinore looked but could not see through the gloom.
Mr. Placardy nodded stiffly toward the knife and the boy scowled. He lifted one of his blonde brows and said, "Are you hiring me for retrieval also? Our deal was for elimination."
"If you want your devil damned coin, you'll throw the thing on the street."
The boy slid unhappily from his perch and lifted, still speared on his kitchen knife, a slain rat. He sauntered out of the establishment, and came back with the kitchen knife but without the dead rat. On his way back in he stopped before Pellinore and looked him over.
"Is there something you require?" the boy asked, wrinkling his nose.
Pellinore, who realized he had been quite openly gawking at the boy and, in his concentration, probably glaring, stammered, "Not at all...you are just more interesting than my work."
He raised his eyebrow again and narrowed his eyes, "I'll bet." He allowed no other comment, but turned his back on Pellinore and leapt agilely back to his perch atop the bar. Without a word he held out his hand and Mr. Placardy flipped him a coin.
The boy became by no means a fixture, he seemed not to be on any sort of schedule but come and go quite as he pleased, appearing sometimes at the first spot Pellinore had seen him, perched on Mr. Placardy's bar. But sometimes also he scoured the bakery next door free of scavengers, or the butcher's shop up the street. As though he were some sort of diminutive hunter of pestilential rodents.
If there were other things which occupied his time, and there must've been for how little of it he spent on this street, Pellinore didn't know what they were. Of course he did not spend all his time looking for the little rat hunter. He had lectures to attend at Cambridge University, school work to complete, and his poetry to write. Even if he had not created something satisfactory in weeks.
He did not even acknowledge that the rat hunter had become a part of the street he frequented on his time off until he was called to it out of practicality.
He was on his way down the stairs from his small flat when he came to a halt, looking down at the anteroom where his landlady, the half deaf Mrs. Trumple was screeching at a boy. A pretty blonde boy, who smiled at her sunily.
"Madame," he said smoothly, no hint of the sneers Warthrop had seen on him before, "I would be simply honored to help you," he bent and kissed the tips of her wrinkled fingers with a wink, making her blush.
She swatted him, "Oh you, don't go making me promises before you've seen the rats we've got."
Pellinore was aware of the problem, they scratched in the walls at night and kept him awake.
A small mote of concern crossed the boy's features, "Do you have very many?"
"Oh, dear boy, I am afraid that we do, what is it you charge, now?"
He looked almost embarrassed and answered, "A shilling a rat usually, at least, that is what the men up the street give me."
She blanched, it was not a hovel, but Pellinore felt certain that neither could she afford that absurd wage, nor that the boy was ever paid so highly.
But Pellinore didn't speak, he merely lingered at the top step, listening.
The boy hurried on, "Of course, I could make special arrangements for you, I could come when I was done up the street...if I had the time, I suppose. Only it's a long way back to my humble home and I like to get back before dark." He bit his soft lower lip and gave her a look of utmost sorrow that he could not be more helpful. "If I lived closer, perhaps I could."
"Now," she said slowly, rubbing one withered hand over the other, "You know…I've...there is a room upstairs that I haven't rented in years...bit small see... "
"Oh, I don't think I could ma'am," he said quickly, looking down then back up at her through his thick lashes, "I live a modest life, you know."
He very nearly couldn't sell it, as far as Pellinore was concerned, who could quite clearly see his game. Too pretty by half for that argument.
She took his hands in her own and, although she may have missed, it, Pellinore thought he saw the boy's eyes darken momentarily.
"My sweet boy," she said patting his hand, "You know I think I have an idea that might just suit us both. If you keep the rats out of this house why, you can stay up there just as long as you wish and I'll not ask after a penny's rent."
A wide smile split the boy's face and he purred, "Well if you are sure ma'am, I would absolutely adore to be in your service." His smile was so full of sunshine that she was helpless but to parrot it back to him.
"Let me show you your room, then, now what is it you said your name was?"
"John," he said with what was near to lasciviousness in his tone, "John Kearns."
"Oh," she exclaimed patting his hand again, "My darling grandson is named Johnny also, now let me show you that room and I suppose you can take a look at those rats."
It was impossible to have missed the way his eyes flashed at that, but she made no remark upon it. She looked up the stairs and spied Pellinore.
"Well look at my luck, not rushing off too fast are you Master Warthrop? Wouldn't you show young Johnny here that room next to yours? My old knees do hate these stairs." She pressed a key into the boy's hand.
The boy gave her a parting smile then ascended the stairs to Pellinore.
Pellinore looked passed the boy to his landlady, he had been rushing off, but she had been upset with him in the past and he had no wish to repeat her refusal to take down his laundry.
"Of course, Mrs. Trumple," he said stiffly.
"Good boy, Pellinore, thank you."
Pellinore shifted his attention to the boy whose wide fawn's eyes were looking at him, he lifted a hand, "Pellinore, was it?"
"Warthrop, yes," Pellinore said, taking his hand with some discomfort, "A pleasure, Johnny Kearns, you said it was?" he said, watching the boy.
His nose wrinkled, "John."
"Ah, yes, John, the room she gave away is just up here." Oddly unwilling to turn his back on Kearns he forced himself around and went back up the stairs to the corner of the second floor to the door at a ninety degree angle from his own, "It is here, you'll find it in order, I believe, perhaps dusty."
Kearns spun the key around his finger with a giddy little grin and unlocked the door. It screeched on its hinges as it opened.
Pellinore peered into the room over Kearns' shoulder, it wasn't hard, the boy stood more than a head shorter than himself. Compared to Pellinore's comfortable room this was hardly more than a cupboard. It looked, in fact, as if it used to be a closet rather than a proper room. Murky light came from a small window on the far side and the angle of the house's roof intersected the ceiling, making it slope sharply down.
Pellinore could not imagine lodging in such a sordid affair, but the boy seemed positively thrilled. He strode into the room and paced its perimeter, stopped only when the ceiling became too low ever for him.
Pellinore remained in the doorway, "Had you gotten anything else out of Mrs. Trumple I would have stepped in," he said, frowning, "What sort of person wheedles old ladies?"
Kearns spun around and regarded him, he frowned for a second but, just as quickly, replaced his frown with a smile, "When did I do any wheedling? We made a fair arrangement, her and I. She wasn't even renting the room."
"You intended to trick her," Pellinore accused, "You don't make a shilling per rat down the street."
He widened his eyes innocently, "How is it any fault of mine that she doesn't know the going price for rat hunting?" The innocent eyes faltered when he smirked smugly.
Pellinore sneered a little in distaste, "You're taking pride in pulling one over an old woman?"
Kearns' eyebrows rose and he grinned, "You don't think I could pull one over you?"
"No."
He winked, "I bet I could."
Pellinore replied stiffly, "I have somewhere I need to be, enjoy your closet."
"I shall!" He called after him as Pellinore spun on his heel and went back down the stairs.
John watched the gangly not quite man stalk away, smirking to himself. He was bored of killing rats, but closet though this might be, it was better than the stable he'd been sleeping in. And free too.
He whistled to himself and, looking over his shoulder to make sure tall, dark, and gloomy was really gone, he allowed himself a moment of victory. "Well, it's certainly bigger than my last place," he said to himself.
But he had work to do if he didn't want to sleep on the floor.
He carefully relocked his door and tucked his key into his pocket, patting it tenderly. He went downstairs, Mrs. Trumple was waiting for him at the bottom. He beamed at her, "This arrangement will be absolutely splendid," he said with a wink.
"Mind you start on those rats this evening, young man," she said, wagging a finger at him.
He laid a hand on his chest, "You wound me, as though I would ever do anything less."
He gave her a final wink and stepped smartly out of the door, the grin sliding off of his face the moment his back was turned. Someday he would be a doctor and have enough money for an entire house where he could live alone and no one would ever demand he be anywhere.
But for now he was in the battered trousers of someone four inches taller than him and only threadbare suspenders keeping them up.
A wave of rage flooded through him and he gritted his teeth. He wanted to rip these vagrant's clothes off of his skin. He resisted the impulse. He had nothing else to wear. Soon he would. All his money now could go to things he wanted rather than cajoling a night's rest from pub owners and stable keeps.
Alright. He stopped at the corner of the street and leaned against a wall of a building. Old panic had started to overcome him. His heart skittered in his chest nearly painfully. He shut his eyes and made himself breath slowly. He was alright. Everything was going to work out. He had a place to stay. He needed furniture and blankets and clothes. Then a rifle. Then the rest of the money he made he could save up for tuition. If he was going to be a doctor, he needed to go to school.
His plan was going to work. It was already working. He had the roof over his head, even if his neighbor was too prying for his liking. He reaffixed a sly little grin on his face and launched off the building into the city.
December 1872, Cambridge
Pellinore's head snapped up from the textbook he had been desperately reading in preparation for a final exam. He had not noticed the dimming of his lamp until it flickered out, leaving him in the semidarkness. The fire in the grate provided some light and desperately needed warmth to fight the cold from the raging storm outside. But it was not nearly bright enough to read by.
He got up and poked a bit more fuel into his fire, then he fumbled into the cupboard where he kept the fuel for his lamp and scrabbled in the dark for it. He found the bottle and rattled it. No oil splashed with in. He swore and threw the empty bottle, remembering now that he was all but snowed in that he had been meaning to buy more but had forgotten more than thrice. The bottle hit his armchair and clattered, unbroken onto the ground.
He picked up his book and scooted right next to the fire. He swore and scrambled back. Not only was it not enough light but it was far too hot that close.
He stood to think and clasped his hands behind his back. Reminding himself too much of his father, he unclasped them and crossed his arms instead. The book demanded to be studied and he was not going to find sleep until it was. There were jets in the hall but not a very good place to sit comfortably. The tenant who lived below him had borrowed oil from him before but he had left to visit family over the holidays. Pellinore supposed he could break in... or there was the boy next door.
The unease he felt over him was ridiculous. He had taken care of the rats as he had promised, within just a few days of moving in. He had not spoken to Pellinore since October. It was not so much a chilliness, but that the boy kept such peculiar hours that they rarely ran into each other.
Well he certainly could not go and fetch more fuel now. Not at this hour and in this weather. With a heavy sigh he opened his door and knocked upon that of his mysterious neighbor.
"What?" a rather irate voice called from within.
"I- It is your neighbor."
"What do you want?"
"Pellinore Warthrop."
There was some shuffling behind the door and it opened. The blonde boy was glowering at him, He was fully dressed and swaddled in a quilt, even so the tips of his ears and point of his nose were pink with cold. His lips were pale, nearly blue.
"I know who you are," he said with chattering teeth, "I asked what you wanted."
Even from the doorway Pellinore could feel the cold coming from his room. It appeared as though it really had been a closet, for there was no fireplace and a whistle of the wind came through the window.
But a light burned on the bedside table.
"I've run out of fuel for my lamp," Pellinore said, "I'd like to borrow some."
Kearns rocked on his feet and glanced into the warmly glowing room Pellinore had just come out of. Pellinore noted that he was wearing at least three pairs of socks.
"No," Kearns said briefly.
"No?" Pellinore asked, stricken. Not only could he see the lamp, full of oil burning on the table, but a bottle filled with the stuff right next to it, far more than any one person could use in a single night, or in a single week.
"No," Kearns reiterated, "But I will make you a trade."
"A trade?" Pellinore asked skeptically, "What could you possibly want from me?"
"Your room."
"What?" Pellinore hissed, "You could not possibly think I would trade my living quarters for lamp oil!"
The boy scoffed, then sneezed, his hand peeked up from under his quilt to wipe at his nose, "No, just... let me sit in your room, I'll bring my lamp, we can both use it."
Pellinore could not say that this was not fair, nor that he didn't understand the boy's position, but he didn't want someone else in his living space. He made a face, shifting uncomfortably with the dilemma of not properly studying or letting Kearns into his home.
"Fine," he grumbled at long last.
The boy shuffled back to his bed and retrieved a rather heavy book, stuck it under his arm and hefted his lamp in the other. Without another word he followed Pellinore back into his mercifully warm quarters.
Kearns audibly sighed when he was inside Pellinore's rooms and, without bothering to ask, set down his things and commenced to drag Pellinore's favorite chair right up to the fireside.
"What the devil are you doing?"
He looked over his shoulder at Pellinore, fixing him with those fawnish eyes, wide and innocent, "I'm quite cold."
"You...that is my chair," Pellinore protested lamely.
Kearns stood up and dropped the quilt, revealing an ugly knit sweater beneath it, the sleeves of which were quite rolled up so that he might properly use his hands. He smiled condescendingly and said, "You, Mr. Wartrhop, are a font of cunning, these are all your chairs, for we are in your room."
"That is not what I meant," Pellinore fumed, already regretting he had allowed this imp inside his chambers.
"Then what is it that you meant?" Kearns asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You cannot sit in that chair," Pellinore said, attempting to sound firm, "It is...mine."
"So you said."
Pellinore looked at his textbook longingly, frustrated that this could not be simple. He gestured to a different chair, "Use that one, it is perfectly acceptable."
"Then this one is not acceptable? Or is this one preferable?"
"It is preferable, which is why I prefer it!"
Kearns brushed back his hair, which now fell is gentle waves and golden curls passed his ears, "I am your guest, oughten I be given the preferable chair?"
Pellinore lost his temper, "You are not a guest. You are a parasite I am allowing here only for the use of your lamplight! Our arrangement specified only that you be allowed into my chambers, not that you were to be given any sort of seat! I would be well within my bounds to make you stand at the door!"
The corners of Kearns' mouth twitched upward, "Bravo, Pellinore, may I call you Pellinore? Of course I will sit somewhere other than your chair. Why did you not simply say that it was so important to you?"
Pellinore gaped at him as he pulled the second chair close to the fire, and an end table after that, situated between them. It was on this table he put the lamp. Without another word he snuggled himself into the second chair and hefted his book onto his lap, letting it fall open at the marker.
Relieved, Pellinore took his own textbook and sat on the second chair, too warm by half this close to the fire but happy at least that he had enough light to read by.
Kearns was not nearly as diligent as Pellinore, as the clock passed midnight every few minutes he would nod off then jerk awake and give a little shake of his head.
At one o'clock Pellinore, satisfied with his readiness, wanting nothing more than to sleep and rid himself of the leech to his concentration, stood up.
"Going to bed already?" Kearns asked, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in his voice. He had only just peeled off his extra layers of socks, and his lips were no longer tinged in blue.
"Yes," Pellinore said, opening the door, "Goodnight."
Kearns fidgeted, "I ought to right your things first," he said and took a good long while pushing back the chairs and table, going so far as to go to a knee before the second chair to turn it just so.
"That is satisfactory," Pellinore growled through clenched teeth, "Goodnight."
The boy took up his lamp and book and returned to his room.
Pellinore locked the door behind Kearns and succumb to sleep.
The next day, bundled from head to foot against the cold and vicious snow, he trundled off to his exam. It went exceptionally well and he left the examination room quite pleased with himself. Two more days of examinations and he would be finished with the semester. He went immediately back home upon completion of his exam, there was more studying to do tonight.
He paused when he got home to make himself something to eat and make a cup of tea. At two o'clock he set to work. At four thirty he swore and his head shot up from where it had been bent over his studies. The oil. He had entirely forgotten. The shop that sold it, the only one in walking distance in this weather, closed precisely at five. He scrambled up to his cupboard to fetch the bottle to be refilled. It was not there.
He tore out the contents of the cupboard, looking for the damnable little bottle. Certainly he could just buy another bottle but that would be an unnecessary cost. He stretched his fingers to the very back of the cupboard before he remembered having thrown the bottle in irritation the day before. He near to dove toward his sitting chair, on his hands and knees looking for the bottle. He wrent the area apart looking for it before finally unearthing it stuck in the cushion of the chair. He stood up, victoriously holding the bottle aloft. He checked his watch and his shoulders crumpled. Five o'clock.
From experience he knew that the store was closed and that no amount of knocking upon the window would open it. Already it was growing dark outside. He groaned and rubbed his fingers into his eyes. He dropped back into chair and studied until the light simply would not allow it. Stubbornly he moved directly beneath the window and stole the last vestiges of daylight.
It was precisely when he would truly have had to give up studying and feeling quite desperate that a knock fell upon the door. He took a long time to stand and walk to the door, knowing very well who was behind it.
As he had suspected, John Kearns grinned at him from the hallway. He was dressed much as he had been the night before, still swaddled in that quilt. The only difference this night was that his pallid lips were turned up in a jovial little grin. He held his brightly burning lamp and said, "Good evening, Pellinore."
"What do you want, Kearns?" Pellinore said brusquely.
"Nothing at all," he said, having the indecency to sound insulted, "I have only realized I quite forgot my stockings here yesterday." He peered around Pellinore, "Quite dark in there, Pellinore. I can't imagine you are getting much reading done in that."
With the lamp held right out before him the temptation was too great. He only wanted to work.
"Come in then," he growled, "The same arrangement as yesterday, which is what you were here for anyway."
Smugly Kearns stepped into the room. He lost no time reorganizing the room as he wanted. Scooting up his chair to the fire. Pellinore drew a chair up close enough to use Kearns' lamp and went back to studying.
Kearns spent the first fifteen minutes merely stretching his bare feet before the fire, warming them, then he did the same for his hands. Today he unravelled some, first unwinding himself from the quilt, then losing the heavy sweater, leaving only the thinnest shirtsleeves. Thus disrobed he took out a book, a novel this time, and lounged in his chair, reading.
On the third day Pellinore was stymied again from fetching his own lamp oil. The storm raging around them was so fierce and bitterly cold that the shop did not even open. Not that that meant any delay in his exams.
As if by magic Kearns appeared at the door just as it got dark. He did not even have a pretense this time, just set the lamp upon the table and sat in the chair he had not rearranged the night previous he snuggled in warmly.
Pellinore had already studied most of the day for this, his last, exam. Already by the time Kearns arrived he felt quite confident. He would only need to put up with his company for a few hours. Irately he glowered at the boy wondering why he looked so damned happy to be here. Then Pellinore realized what ought to have been quite obvious, his little unheated closet must be simply dreadful in this weather. Intolerable to sleep in.
Distracted he rose from his chair.
Kearns looked at him with big eyes, "Bed already?"
"No, merely making tea."
"Oh, I would love some! I take it with three sugars and cream."
Pellinore, having not offered him tea, scowled, "I don't keep cream."
"But you like cream," he argued.
Pellinore's scowl deepened considerably, "How could you know that?"
"It's how you took your tea at the cafe, you drank enough of it."
Pellinore shifted with discomfort, "That was...yes...I do prefer cream...but it sours before I can finish it."
"I have some, I could get it if you like."
Pellinore hemmed and hawed over this small decision, he did not want the irritating creature to believe they shared any sort of cameraderie. But he did prefer cream, "Fine."
Kearns bounded to his feet, "Excellent! I shall be back in a single shake."
He disappeared briefly to his own room and came back with cream that was quite cold. Pellinore set to preparing tea.
"What is it that you're reading?" Pellinore asked, he had been so studious about it and to Pellinore's knowledge, he was not a student.
"Health and Longevity," Kearns said.
Pellinore interrupted as Kearns opened his mouth to say more, "By Beale?"
Kearns looked delighted, "Yes! You know of it? Have you read it?"
"I know of it, I have not read it. You're a student of medicine then?"
For some reason this made Kearns scowl, "No," he said shortly. He covered this swiftly and grinned, turning the questioning around on Pellinore, "But you are a student, are you not, what is it you study? I suspect Law, you seem the type."
"I want to be a poet." He said it shyly. More than once that admission had been met with derision, by his father, professors, near strangers.
But Kearns only beamed at him and closed his eyes, lifting a hand theatrically and reciting,
"The Demon, in my chamber high,
This morning came to visit me,
And, thinking he would find some fault,
He whispered: 'I would know of thee.'"
Pellinore smiled despite himself, stepping toward Kearns, "Baudelaire, he is even better in French, have you read it in the original?"
Pink tinged Kearns cheeks, "I don't know any French. Recite it, can you?"
Pellinore took another step toward him, his countenance breaking out in a real smile, he did recite it, repeating first the stanza Kearns had said in its original flowing French and carrying on, all the way through the poem.
The very corners of Kearns pouting lips were turned up by the time Pellinore fell silent. His grey eyes were fixed upon Pellinore's. "Do you favor Baudelaire?"
Pellinore shrugged, "Not in particular."
"Then your favorite? What is that?"
"My favorite?"
"Yes, the poem you like best of all others, what is that?"
Pellinore shuffled and bit his lip, "I ought not- it is...it isn't yet published...it has been sent to me by a friend."
Kearns, hair truly golden in the firelight, long lashes dark on his pale cheeks pouted ever so slightly, looking truly disappointed, "I shan't be able to recall it from a single reading, what would be the harm? What would I do, publish it myself?"
Temptation too great Pellinore relented, "The English translation or the French?"
"English first."
"I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.
I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose soundlessly.
My first adventure, in a path already gleaming With a clear pale light, Was a flower who told me its name.
I laughed at the blond Wasserfall That threw its hair across the pines: On the silvered summit, I came upon the goddess.
Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms.
Across the meadow, where I betrayed her to the cock. In the heart of town she fled among the steeples and domes, And I hunted her, scrambling like a beggar on marble wharves.
Above the road, near a thicket of laurel, I caught her in her gathered veils, And smelled the scent of her immense body. Dawn and the child fell together at the bottom of the wood.
When I awoke, it was noon. "
Kearns had set his elbow upon the arm of his chair, propping his chin upon his hand. His head was slightly tilted looking up at Pellinore, gently he said, "Now the French."
Pellinore tilted his head back as he recited it again in the original, closing his eyes to bring the words to mind. He could feel his heart speed as he recited, could feel his breath coming to life. He gesticulated passionately with the rising and falling of the stanzas. When he opened his eyes again at the poem's conclusion Kearns was still staring at him, grey eyes glittering in the warm light.
Pellinore flushed, squirming beneath the weight of Kearns' attention. Behind him the kettle whistled and in utter relief he spun away from Kearns to finish the tea.
"Three sugars you said?"
"Yes," his voice was still smooth and gentle.
Pellinore fussed with his tea, pouring in a liberal amount of cream and mixing in three sugars, although he gagged to think how sweet it would be, and handed it over to Kearns.
"Thank you, Pellinore," he said softly, taking the cup, "I don't suppose you will recite me any of your own?"
Pellinore stiffened over his tea, "My own what?"
"Your work," Kearns said, "You said you wanted to be a poet, surely you have written something."
"Nothing of value," Pellinore said shortly. He took his tea and circled wide around Kearns to his own chair, "You've distracted me for too long, Kearns, I have to study."
"John."
"What?"
"You may call me John, if you wish."
Pellinore looked back up at him once and then riveted himself back to his studies. John didn't say another word, but sipped his tea and went back to his own reading.
It was two in the morning before Pellinore, with itching eyes, resisted the pull to keep studying that he might rest. It would not do to refuse to sleep before an exam. He rose and closed his book.
"I am retiring for the evening," he said. He would not say he had not enjoyed the other boy's company, but he sorely wished for solitude.
"Is that how you politely turn me out of your door?" John asked lightly.
"Yes."
"Very well, I shall take my lamp with me." He moved the lamp and then pushed the chairs back to where he had found them. He collected his lamp, book, and quilt, as well as his discarded extra socks and went to the door, "Until next time, Pellinore."
"I will purchase more lamp fuel by tomorrow," Pellinore said, somewhat confused, "It would be very unlikely that I find myself in this predicament again."
"Well don't let that stop you," John said, disappearing out the door.
The next day, and rather unhappy with himself for it, it was Pellinore who knocked on John's door. He had enjoyed reciting poetry. Now that his exams were concluded and he were less on edge he would have enjoyed doing it again. He had been certain that John would agree to spend the evening in Pellinore's much warmer quarters. But there was no answer at the door.
Nor was there the next day, nor the next. An odd nagging over John plucked at Pellinore. So much that he would peer at the gap in John's door on his way up the stairs to see if he had returned home.
But as far as he could tell, John had vanished.
Pellinore, now the only person in the student populated building during Christmas season, for even Mrs. Trumple had gone to London, settled into the enjoyable task of secluded reading. He had no schoolwork between semesters and could dig into the stack of books he had collected over the course of the year. And, of course, he did hope to finish at least a single poem he could stand to reread.
John, he was forced to assume after a week of his absence, had simply gone home to family for the holidays. But he had not been so irritating, and even Pellinore could not deny the allure a warm room would have over a frozen closet. He wanted to talk about poetry with him again, without the voice in the back of his head that chided and told him to get back to work. He felt foolish for having been won over so easily. But it was not often he found someone to share his passions with.
It was not until four days into his break that there came a knock upon his door. It was too late to really be appropriate for a caller, but Pellinore rose from his desk where he had been scribbling and opened the door. Suspecting already who it was before he had opened it.
In a dashing, and tight fitting, new coat stood a grinning John Kearns, snowflakes still melting in his golden hair. "I don't suppose you're feeling peckish, Pellinore?"
"It is nearly eleven in the evening, John."
John raised an eyebrow, "Then you aren't hungry?"
Pellinore's stomach reminded him viciously that he was indeed hungry. He'd been rather caught up in his writing, not that he had accomplished more than a few weak stanzas, and hadn't eaten all day.
He stepped aside, "Come in, I assumed you were...home."
John's smile turned stiff, "For Christmas, do you mean? My little nook is the only home I have I am afraid. And you? America too far for the holidays?"
It was Pellinore's turn to go rather stiff, "Yes."
John slid passed him and set the food down upon the table, "Well, I have brought all sorts of goodies."
Pellinore looked down upon the pile of cakes, cookies, and candies, "...I thought you said you brought food."
He shrugged, "Desserts then," he corrected, "It is eleven at night. Haven't you already eaten?"
"...No."
"Well whose fault is that?"
"I don't suppose there are scones somewhere in here?"
"Yes, I believe so, actually, under the peanut brittle, just there."
Pellinore took all four of them, "Tea?"
"Please!" John said with a smile, "Shall I get the cream again?"
"Yes."
John fetched his cream again and came back without his new coat. His clothing had taken a spike in quality, his trousers now fit him properly and the vest he wore over his shirt was quite fine. He looked less diminutive in clothing his size, more the young man he was than a boy.
"So are you going to read me what you were working on?" John nearly purred.
Pellinore blushed, "It-it isn't ready."
"Then read me something that is."
"I have nothing that is!"
"Nothing?" John said, "But I see you writing for hours."
"Where do you see me?" Pellinore asked, frowning.
"One of the three places you ever go: here, your school, or the cafe. And you know I still hunt there."
"Hunt rats."
"...Yes," John said unhappily, "hunt rats. But do you know that sometimes I pretend they are great beasts? How foolish is that?"
"Quite foolish," Pellinore said, then rethinking himself when John looked offended said, "What beasts?"
John laughed, "The biggest and toothiest I can think of, lions usually, does something bigger and toothier come to mind?"
Pellinore, who had a wide range of bigger and toothier beasts in his repertoire hastily dunked his scone into his tea and devoured it. With half of it still in his mouth he said, "Did you bring these here so you could sit in my well heated apartment?"
John shivered theatrically, "I will not say it isn't a perk, Pellinore, but no. I have something for you."
"You do? Something for me?"
"Yes!"
"Where is it?"
John smirked, "Do you like a bit of mystery, Pellinore?"
Pellinore tilted his head, staring at him, very seriously he said, "Yes."
"Then tell me what I've brought you."
Pellinore's face alit with curiosity and his eyes darted about, they dragged up John's body, looking for bulges that might mean a trinket of some kind. When he found none he looked back up at John's smirking face. A minute passed of Pellinore staring at him with nearly glowing eyes, before a triumphal smile erupted on his face, he made his guess that was half rooted in his own hopefulness, "Poetry."
John laughed breathlessly, "Impressively sharp, Pellinore!"
Dusky red flooded Pellinore's cheeks, glowing under the praise, "Recite it, then."
"Some of yours first."
Pellinore sat back in his chair and bit into his last scone, "Then you have not brought me a gift, as you promised, John, you have brought a bartering chip."
John looked at him through his long lashes, "Perhaps you will consider it tribute."
Pellinore scowled in confusion, "Tribute?"
"Yes, and if it proves sufficient," he positively purred, "I will be rewarded."
Pellinore hesitated, "Rewarded? With my poetry?"
John lifted a brow delicately and nodded.
Unsure of himself Pellinore nodded, "Alright," then he grinned, "Produce your tribute."
John's eyes glimmered and he bit his lower lip softly before he began, drawing a slip of paper from his pocket and reading in a voice like a gentle hum,
'When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love! - then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.'"
His voice trailed off as he concluded the recitation.
It was Pellinore now who stared at him, transfixed, feeling split apart, bared open to John's devouring gaze. He had leaned toward John while he had spoken his lips were slightly parted. Leaning so far onto his elbows across the table he was nearly lifted from his seat, he spoke breathlessly, in a hush that stole passed his lips without his control,
"Haloed in a golden light,
His lips spilled forth his song,
and though he thought he looked at me,
my soul he looked upon."
As soon as he realized he had spoken he went violently red, straightening in his seat and going so stiff he was nearly rigid. He was going to be laughed at. He had ruined it. It had been trite, foolish, pedestrian. And John's gift had been so perfect. John surely would mock him.
John indeed frowned for a moment and tilted his head delicately, "Pellinore," he said slowly, "Was that yours?"
Wishing very much that he could flee Pellinore nodded. He tried to ready himself for the mocking laughter that was sure to follow.
John's face, his eyes, softened as though layers were falling away, he spoke without fluttering eyelashes or teasing smirks, "Did you write that just now...for me?"
Pellinore clamped closed his teeth, swallowing the bile that rose up on his tongue. He felt his throat constricting. John looked at him, waiting for an answer. Horribly, he nodded.
"Say it again."
Pellinore, who had believed his imagination had plumbed the bottom of the cruelty Kearns had available to him, was startled at the atrocity implicit in this request. He wanted his voice not to sound so tight when he accused, "You are mocking me."
John's eyebrows leapt up in surprise, "No, Pellinore, I am not." He glanced down then back up through his lashes, "You wrote me poetry. I only want to hear it again that I might remember it better, I do not have your gift for recitation."
Shy and uncertain, Pellinore repeated the lines. He liked them even less on the second reading.
John mouthed the words with him, as though attempting to affix it into his mind.
Pellinore's heart stampeded under his chest. He felt as though he had evaded a snare, that any moment John would see his error and begin to laugh in earnest. He looked down at his hands and whispered, "Did you truly like it?"
John smiled, "Yes, Pellinore. I don't suppose you would consent to write it down for me."
The further he was convinced John that had indeed enjoyed his impromptu and, in his opinion not very good, burst of poetry, the headier he became. His urges to secrecy were rapidly beginning to shift and he wanted to shove all of his scraps of poems under John's nose for approval. He rose and crossed the room to his desk. He bent over it and scribbled out the lines he had just recited when he had he hesitated then at the top of the paper scrap he scrawled, 'For John.'
He came to John's side of the table and held out the paper.
John took it reverently and Pellinore saw him mouth, 'For John,' with the barest trace of a smile. In a fond and tender voice, not looking up from the poetry he said, "Your penmanship is atrocious."
Pellinore did not know if he ought to feel uncomfortable or warm at John's obvious enjoyment, in his confusion he changed the topic, "Who wrote the one you brought?"
John looked up from his scrap of paper, tucking it into his breast pocket, "Hm? Oh! John Keats, I thought you should hear something English, too much French will muddle your mind you know."
"...That isn't true."
John laughed, "Perhaps not, but still, you needed something from the crowning jewel of human culture."
Pellinore scowled, "You and I view the English differently."
John laughed and leapt up, sticking a piece of peanut brittle between his lips, around it he said, "So what is it you do on your holidays, Pellinore? Nothing to study for in the middle of the night."
"I read usually," Pellinore said, "I don't often get the chance to read novels, I...that is what I always do on my holidays."
"Novels? Good ones?"
"Yes, good ones, why would I waste my time with a poor one?"
John shrugged and found his stack of them next to his desk, he crouched in front of it and pulled one out from the middle so swiftly the rest merely thumped down rather than cascading into a mess. He tossed it to Pellinore, who almost didn't catch it. Then John flopped down on top of Pellinore's unmade bed and reclined, putting his hands behind his head, "Read it to me."
Pellinore had no idea if this is what friends usually acted like, having never had any close companions during any year of his schooling. But the biting edge of loneliness which was a pain so constant he had quite forgotten about it eased with John grinning at him in his own apartment.
"Can't you read it yourself?"
John, whose eyes were closed, said, "Of course I can, but I want you to read it."
Pellinore stood and tossed the remaining cakes and candies into the bag they came from them deposited them on the bed, "Move over."
The bed was pressed against the wall on one side and only where John was currently lounging was close enough to the nightstand to read by the light of a lamp.
Enthusiastically John moved to the other side and Pellinore situated the lamp and sat, leaning on the headboard. Then, munching on John's desserts, he began to read.
An hour into reading, his throat growing quite tired, he glanced down and found John to be entirely asleep.
"John?" He said softly.
John made no reaction. He was curled on his side, face looking quite angelic without his usual grins and smirks.
Pellinore hesitated. It was not uncommon for companions to share sleeping arrangements only he had never done it. But he found he did not want to wake John only to chase him back to his frozen closet. He looked quite peaceful with a tiny flush on his cheeks.
Pellinore got up slowly as to not wake him and slipped into the watercloset to ready himself for bed. He came back relieved and in nightclothes. Only then did he notice that John still had his shoes on.
He stood looking at them awkwardly for a long time then, trying to be gentle, eased the shoes from his feet and put them under the bed. John shifted a little, but he was well and truly asleep. He scooped up the remaining desserts and put them back on the table then crawled into bed, pulling the covers over them both. He rolled onto his side, away from John, and something crunched under him.
He pulled out what he thought would be refuse from the snacks but found the scrap on which he had written his poem. He put it on the nightstand and blew out the lamp, then allowed himself to sleep.
When John awoke he was comfortable, warm, and supremely well rested: three sensations he was entirely unused to. Rather confused, he sat up and startled to find that he was not in his frozen little coffin but still in Pellinore's room, and that Pellinore himself was curled up beside him, still fast asleep.
A different sort of warmth entirely spread through his belly. Pellinore had allowed him to stay. And taken off his shoes. He got up carefully, picking his way over Pellinore so as not to disturb him. He hunted out his shoes and slipped them on.
He spent a moment looking through Pellinore's larder and, finding it shockingly empty, took his leave, intending to come back with breakfast. He made a pit stop in his own room, which was quite cold and unwelcoming, for his coat then went down to the market. When he returned, laden with breakfast accoutrements he did not bother to knock, but came right in. Pellinore was sitting up in bed, looking tousled and grumpy.
His dark hair was in a tangle around his head and he glowered at John, "I thought you'd left."
"I did, Pellinore, but only briefly. You were remarkably poorly provisioned and I thought to make you breakfast. You did allow me to stay in your cozy quarters last night after all."
"I do not usually eat breakfast."
"Or dinner apparently," John remarked and put all his purchases down near Pellinore's miniscule stove. He prodded the stove's fire into life and set about making sausages, eggs, bacon, and toast as well as some tea fixed to Pellinore's liking.
Pellinore himself was clearly not a person made for mornings. He dragged himself out of bed and disappeared without a word to the water closet, coming back only slightly more put together. He sat at the table and with bleary eyes accepted a cup of tea with a grunt of thanks.
"The cold snap has broken," John reported happily as he turned the bacon, "It is quite lovely out this morning."
"Hmm," was Pellinore's only response.
John tipped the breakfast onto two plates and gave one to Pellinore, the other he himself sat down with on his side of the table.
For someone who claimed not to eat breakfast, Pellinore dug into his with relish, eating it at twice the speed of John. John finished his at a leisurely pace. Just as there was no fireplace in his closet, neither was there a stove of any sort and warm breakfasts were not something he usually got to enjoy.
"There is a… small gathering of students tonight that I have received an invitation to," Pellinore said hesitantly, looking at his plate, "I had not planned on going… but perhaps you would like to accompany me?" Only when he had finished with the entire question did he look up.
John looked extremely put out, his already pouty lips pouting even more, "I - can't tonight. I have other arrangements."
"Oh," Pellinore said, disappointed as well, "Well...oh."
"I ought to be back by late this evening, perhaps we could continue with that book."
"You fell asleep," Pellinore protested.
"Only because it was very late and I was very warm, I did like it."
"Yes, yes alright."
"Will you be back from your party by then?"
Pellinore shifted uncomfortably, "I probably -," he was not planning to go if he were going on his own, as he had not planned to go when he first received the invitation, "Yes, I will be back."
"Then I shall see you tonight."
John leapt to his feet, "But I am afraid I really must be off, thank you again for allowing me the warmth of your bed." He followed this with a wink that made Pellinore blush.
John spun on his heel, picking up his coat on the way. He made it all the way to the door before he patted his breast pocket and swiveled back to the room, stricken. His eyes were wide and his brows drawn together, "My poem! It isn't in my pocket." His voice was almost comically upset.
"It's on the nightstand," Pellinore said, "It fell out of your pocket as you slept. But surely it cannot mean that much to you."
John snatched the paper from the nightstand, flicked it open to verify it was indeed the correct slip of paper, and stuck it back into his pocket. "Oh, I can assure you that it does, my dear Pellinore." And with that he disappeared through the door.
Pellinore, who had no interest in going to any sort of social gathering and had only brought it up as an excuse to spend more time with John spent his afternoon much as he usually would. He tucked himself into his desk and worked on the fledgling poem he had given to John. What he really wanted was to be able to present a completed poem when he arrived in the evening. The first stanza had come so naturally but the rest refused.
He felt embarrassed when he tried to write it, even more so when he tried to bring John's face to mind, his eyes wide, lips soft and slightly agape. Pellinore distracted himself recreating in his mind's eye the breathless quality of John's voice when he had first recited to him. For some reason, the thought of it made his heart pound. The words flowed off of his pen and his heart skittered in his breast. He thought of the way he had felt open and gazed upon when John had read Keats to him. As though he had known. As though simply looking upon Pellinore was enough to see to his dusty corners. A jittering energy coursed through him and he was a force not to be stopped. The completed product was too long, rambling, expressive but confused. But he could not bring himself to cut any of it. He could only recopy it without his crossings out and revisions. He even tried to use his best penmanship for the task.
He labelled it again, 'For John,' and signed it, 'From Pellinore, for the Keats.'
He had much he wanted to do. But he could not ply himself to any task. Every few minutes he would reread his work and have a fit of unnerve over giving it to John. Or fall to distraction and check the time, counting down the hours to when his company would arrive.
At ten in the evening, he had not gone to his party, he could do barely any more than wander around his apartment in anticipation. He checked the time fastidiously.
By eleven he was trying to read but kept losing his page.
By midnight his heart was heavy.
At one in the morning he tentatively knocked on John's door and received no reply. He dragged himself back to his own rooms and sat heavily upon his chair. He hadn't bothered to light his lamp and was illuminated only by the dull light of the fire in the grate.
It was foolish to be so disappointed. He barely knew the man. But he sat before the fire, glowering at it. He didn't have to have a light to go back over the poem he had intended for his new friend. Of course, he thought with a twist of embarrassment, he did not know if it was the sort of thing one gave to friends. There was much in the poem about his eyelashes and lips. But it was only what Pellinore had noticed. Surely John would not read harm into that. He did have to be honest didn't he, was that not the whole point of poetry?
But perhaps he had already gone too far. Perhaps John had never intended to come back, had put on a theatrical show of liking his poetry in order to not hurt him. But had fled into the night, never to return. He launched off his chair to pace about the room, pulling at his bottom lip in consternation.
In excruciating detail he went over the events of the night before, desperate to discover where he had gone wrong. It had the reverse effect of plunging him deeper into his despair John had not arrived.
He dropped onto the bed, energy sapping away from him and melancholy weighing him down. It ought not surprise him that John did not want to come back. He had not managed to acquire any friends in the last two years at Cambridge, nor the six years before that when he had been away at boarding school. Like an old and unwanted companion, the burden of loneliness sank back over him, engulfing him.
Six days later, on Christmas day, exuberant as a child, John took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, vaulting up toward Pellinore's door. He had not even been home yet. But a thrill was over him still. His blood was quick with it.
He knocked rapidly on the door, his trophy clutched in his hand.
"Pellinore! Open up!" He pounded again, "I can smell the fire, Pellinore, I know you're home!" He felt a sudden and terrible blossoming of panic. It had been six days since he had said he would come. Had he upset Pellinore? He did seem rather delicate. More aggressively he slammed his hand on the door, "Pellinore!" In a true panic he continued his pounding.
Finally the door burst open.
"WHAT?" The Pellinore who greeted him was not the Pellinore he had left behind. Instead of the unkept but clean and expensively dressed scholar was a wreaking mess. Certainly his trousers were always quite wrinkled and his shirt was never properly tucked in, but he was always rather clean.
This Pellinore had oily and uncombed hair in a horrible tangle. He wore the same clothes John had last seen him in and he smelled of unwashed body and stale clothing. Dark circles were under his eyes, making him look ghoulish. John took a surprised step back.
Pellinore looked down at John with wide eyes, his back stiffened. "You."
"Why yes, Pellinore, a bit later, perhaps, than I promised, but my affairs took rather longer to conclude than I had been led to believe. I do apologize."
Pellinore's hands shot out and gripped John by the shoulders. "I thought you dead! Or gone!"
John, increasingly bemused, smiled at him, surprised at his own lack of concern for being manhandled. "Not at all, merely waylaid. I'm sorry I missed our appointment. Had I had my way, I would have been here, not responsible for my own transportation you see."
"Ah," Pellinore released him and stepped back awkwardly, "...I…"
"You?"
He jumped noticing for the first time, "You have a rifle."
John beamed, holding up his trophy "Yes! But I shan't tell you the story now."
Pellinore glared, "Why not?"
"Bathe first, my good man, then we can make up for lost time. Anyway, I need a bath as well, I stink of cow manure."
Two hours later, both of them properly bathed, saw John settling down in his favorite of Pellinore's chairs, tea in hand.
"I have been hunting!" Jack said.
"A little much to take on a hunting trip for rats, isn't it?" Pellinore asked, eyeing the rifle that John had brought with him and set upon the table.
John glowered, "Not rats, wolves, I am moving up in the world."
"You were hunting wolves?" Pellinore asked, standing up suddenly.
"Yes, whatever is the matter?"
"You might have told me!"
John recoiled at the idea of reporting his goings on to anyone, heatedly he shot, "Why would I do that?"
Pellinore looked at him incredulously, "You could have died! People die hunting dangerous things! How did you even know they were wolves!"
John wished very much he could help how touched he felt at Pellinore's concern. It had been quite a long time since he could remember someone's fear on his behalf, "Well what else could have been killing that farmer's sheep?"
"What else? What else?" Pellinore was pacing now, "Anything else!"
"Well I have survived and come home with my very own rife," John said, more than a little disconcerted at his friend's behavior, "Isn't it pretty?"
Pellinore looked down at it, "Yes, quite."
"You didn't even look at it!" John protested.
Pellinore stopped his pacing and sighed. He picked up the rifle and inspected it quite closely, commenting on its craftsmanship and intricate designs along the shaft.
John glowed, "Isn't is wonderful?"
"You got this as payment?"
"Yes! It was an heirloom of theirs."
"You took an heirloom?"
John scoffed, "Well I did risk my life, and after all it might have been anything killing those sheep." His eyes glimmered at Pellinore in amusement.
Pellinore relented, "I wrote you something."
John lit up, "You did?" he said very quickly.
"Would you like to read it?"
"No, I would like you to read it to me." His heart had begun to flutter when Pellinore had worried over him and it had not stopped.
Pink crept up Pellinore's cheeks, but he fetched the poem, "I- it is...quite long."
"Even better."
"A...continuation of...of the first one," his passion had given way to shyness.
John gave him a delighted little smile and motioned for him to carry on.
"I - I left it almost in the original...I mean...I hardly edited...I could not… it is my first in this style...I."
"I am on bated breath, Pellinore." And he was, his stomach was churning in anticipation. An entire poem, just for him? Butterflies in his stomach seemed too weak a phrase.
Pellinore began by reading but after the first stanza looked up and caught John's eye and did not look away. He had read it so many times to himself he did not need to look at the paper. He watched John become how he had remembered him while he had been writing. Leaning slightly forward, soft lips parted, eyes nearly shimmering.
Partway through John stood and stepped closer to him but Pellinore did not stop the recitation.
His voice trailed off at the conclusion and he continued to look at John, who looked right back, only half a step away.
In a shaking voice John asked, "All of that...for me?"
"Yes." A phrase concerning the pinkness of his lips had felt much different when read staring into John's eyes rather than into a dying fire. "For you."
John did not hesitate, he came forward and pressed his lips against Pellinore's. The kiss was short and chaste and rather desperate. Pellinore's brain erupted in messy thoughts that tangled over one another and refused to be understood. But the feeling in his stomach and shaking of his heart coalesced and he felt only loss when John not so much leapt back, as his feet remained close to Pellinore, but leaned away. His eyes had sprung back open the moment his lips had left Pellinore's and he breathed shallowly in gasping bursts.
Pellinore did not allow him to go far. As John leaned back Pellinore leaned forward, his long fingered hands burying themselves into John's golden hair, pulling John back to him. He kissed him ardently, his eyes squeezed closed. John tugged him down lower by the collar. Though John's lips did not leave his, Pellinore felt John's smile against him.