Chapter Text
John woke up at half-past nine and cursed as checked his alarm and realized that he had set it for eight PM instead of eight AM.
He would be late for his creative writing class. His favorite class.
He had spent the night over with his friend Percy who was still sound asleep, naturally.
John briefly deliberated on whether or not he should wake him or let him suffer, but in the end he decided to be a good friend.
“SHELLEY!”
He said, flinging one of his pillows at him with as much force as he could possibly muster.
Percy let out a groan.
“We’re late, and thish ish the firsht day of the finalsh period — if wegh doghn’t go todaygh, we maygh not pash!” John said through his electric toothbrush, frantically reaching for his clothes.
At this news, Percy perked up ever so slightly.
“Finals? I completely forgot. Such an archaic notion. Finals! As if sacred learning isn’t enough…” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and rising slowly.
John picked a shirt up from off the floor and threw it at Percy. His slightly older peer could be horribly unkempt and immature sometimes, and in moments like these he reminded John of the younger brothers he grew up having to wrangle in the mornings as if he were their parent.
But today he didn't have time to parent anyone. John proceeded to shove some bread into his mouth. Shelley was often so absorbed by his studies that he forgot to eat, and when he did eat it was mostly just ate rolls of bread because he was a lazy vegan. Everyone joked he was like an old peasant and that if inflation rose any higher he'd be the first in line to start some new bread riots.
Without glancing back at Percy, John grabbed his bag and darted across the room like his life depended on it.
“I suppose I’ll go today, if I absolutely must . . ." Percy said.
John had already rushed out of the door.
"If I absolutely, absolutely must . . ." Percy said.
———
Professor Wordsworth was clearly unamused as they walked in with their heads down and quietly took their seats toward the back of the room next to their friends.
Sadly for John, Percy quickly sat between Tré and Byron.
The last empty seat in the room — which John would therefore be forced to take — was the one on the other side of Byron, who snickered at the frown on John's face as he helplessly looked around the room for any other spare seat.
There was no other option.
John sat down at last, not making eye contact with the boy he once so stupidly admired, and whose writing he had so desperately adored and sought to imitate.
That was before last week when Byron had insulted his writing during one of their meetings at Percy's writing club.
“Pssttt. Ayy!”
John ignored him. Wordsworth seemed not to hear, continuing on with his mini lecture.
"Pssssssstttttt!!!!" he was psstt'd once more.
He still refused to look to the person sitting to his left.
"Now, I'm going to go over some important information that you all should know for your final project. Some of this information may be new to some of you who decided not to start early. No matter. I want you all to take out your laptops or notebooks, and make some notes about these important matters. You'll wish you had," Professor Wordsworth said.
Everyone did as they were bid. Keats was always a diligent note taker and wrote in his notebook in cursive. Byron had originally taken his laptop out but put it back in his bag, exchanging it for a notebook.
John tried his best to ignore him the entire class as Wordsworth mainly droned on about their final writing projects and everything that would be on their final exam as well. Wordsworth was known for being one of the best professors at the university, but also one of the strictest graders.
John thought to himself that Percy should be thanking him later for forcing him awake. Percy was the most academically studious person he had ever known, but like Byron and Tré, he hardly ever showed up to class, and had nearly been expelled on several occasions for lateness and absences.
The class dragged on rather boringly.
Except, of course, for Byron's constant heckling and harassment.
"Maybe you should write some poetry for the final. Maybe you should include something from Hyperion," Byron whispered.
"I'm sorry your parents didn't give you adequate attention when you were a child, but that's REALLY not my problem, mate," John replied.
"At least my parents paid for my education and didn't make me go to school on a scholarship," Byron fired back.
"Excuse me?!" Keats exclaimed, standing in outrage.
He was ready to punch him.
"BOYS," Wordsworth exclaimed.
Everyone in the class stared at them.
"I know you probably thought you were whispering, but in fact you've just disrupted the entire class,"
"It wasn't me! It was him, he's been distracting me the entire time!" Keats argued.
"I don't want to hear it. Any more words from either of you today and I'll take away points off your final," Wordsworth replied.
Keats sat back down red and huffing.
Byron had to cover his mouth to keep his laughs from escaping.
-----
And since then, poor Keats had the misfortune of running into Byron at various social gatherings.
It seemed like the fucker knew just about everyone in school.