Chapter Text
The doorbell rang.
“Hey John, could you get that for me?” Percy said without glancing up from his book.
He was reading a copy of Plato’s Republic in the original Greek. John barely peeped from behind his notebook, thoroughly resigned to his spot on the couch where he was going over a poem he’d recently written. Neither spoke.
The doorbell rang again.
Percy hated that God awful noise!
“John, my most excellent friend," Percy began.
Polidori didn't wait for him to finish his request. The younger man sighed and got up, dramatically tossing his notebook behind him as he went.
Percy felt a little bad for making him get the door, especially knowing who was likely to appear on the other side. But in his defense, his new black kitten, Victor, was curled up in his lap. How could he move?!
John got up and unlocked the door to reveal their unexpected guest.
“Oh, I didn’t know Percy had company. I can come back another time —“ the man at the door quickly said, smiling a bit before turning to walk away. John made no attempt to stop him, not particularly fond of strangers himself.
But before the stranger could leave, Percy had heard his melodic voice and lit up with excitement at getting to see one of his favorite people.
“Byron!” Percy yelled from his spot in the living room.
Byron sighed, turning back to the doorway to face John with a resumed smile.
The kitten jumped from Percy’s lap and ran to the door to try and escape. Byron managed to swoop down and grab the little thing before it went out. He brought it up to inspect, gasping at it like a child.
John couldn’t believe it — this was the Byron he had heard so much about! The Byron whose incredible work he had read from Shelley and in the local student journals, and who had managed to influence his own work! The elusive Byron who he had been trying to meet for a while now, but who Shelley had kept forgetting to introduce him to!
“Percy, why didn’t you tell me you had a kitten! What’s it's name? I'm so sorry to say that I’m simply stealing it from you now. No, don't try to argue. I hope you can come to understand,” Byron went on dramatically, cuddling the kitten against his chest.
“Absolutely not! His name is Victor. Well, I think it’s a male… I haven’t checked. That’s why I wanted you to come over."
“You —“
“I mean, not to check! But to see the thing. As a surprise. I heard him mewing behind the dumpster outside last night while taking a walk. No sign of mother in sight!"
Byron marveled at the ball of fluff. Percy continued rambling.
"It’s a miracle that I even heard him, his meow was so faint that I almost thought I was dreaming it."
Byron lifted the kitten up a bit.
“Well, it seems like a Victor to me.”
The kitten had an oddly aloof and somewhat stoic demeanor (if such terms could be applied to kittens) through the whole process, which contrasted oddly with its cuteness.
Percy further explained how he suspected it may have been starving to death and potentially even abandoned by it's owner, as it had been so afraid of people before Percy managed to build trust with it. Since then, it had been friendly to everyone he had introduced it to, and he continuously invited people over to see it for the first time, as if he was showing off a newborn baby.
"Didn't you once beat someone up for harming a cat?" Percy asked John.
"And I'd do it again," John said.
"When was that?"
"When I was younger. But I never quite lived it down."
“You two should get along well, then. Byron here is the greatest animal lover I know. Oh, I haven’t introduced you two yet!” Percy said, suddenly remembering his role as host and trying to subdue his regular shyness.
It wasn’t easy being shy, and it certainly wasn’t easy being shy when all your friends were borderline anti-social. But Percy's almost manic energy and emotionality often overran his shyness, and he really loved nothing better than to scout out kindred spirits and bring them into contact.
That was the entire goal of his starting The Society of Prometheus, after all. Starting a university club for writing and activism had put him in touch with many likeminded individuals he was able to connect with on a deeper level.
“I’m John. John Keats,” he said, introducing himself quicjly and nervously.
He held out his hand, then switched to his other hand to match the side that Byron wasn't holding the kitten on.
They shook hands a bit awkwardly. There was some unspoken tension between them born of what they’d heard about each other already.
“George Byron,” Byron replied simply, in a much better mood now that he had an animal with him.
Byron flopped onto the couch next to Percy and looked up at John who sat on the opposite seat. John tried not to notice that George had sat in his spot. Dangerously close to his notebook.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” John said, trying not to sound awkward.
"I'm sure. All horrible things, I hope," Byron laughed.
“Do either of you want tea? Or bread?” Percy said, trying anxiously to be a Proper Host.
John agreed. Byron just as swiftly declined.
A part of Percy sensed some tension in the room, and while he was usually the mediator in instances like these, he would prefer it if his two dear friends could get along of their own volition.
The two of them were really quite alike, and Mary and Claire (who John was told wouldn't be back until later, both out to get groceries) had agreed. Mary had made a quip about the two men being jealous of each other for being so similar and for vying over Percy’s attentions, which he didn’t think was true in the slightest.
Sure, Byron fumed every time Percy mentioned hanging out with John or how John was a writer too. And sure, John had liked the prospect of meeting Byron at first until Percy told him that Byron was jealous.
Percy came back with bread and tea to find his two friends sitting in silence. He frowned a bit.
“Would you like to take your son?” Byron asked.
Percy sat down next to him, picking his book back up with one hand while taking the kitten in the other. Byron picked up the notebook that was sitting next to him which had been half-shoved into the side of the couch. He started flipping through it idly.
John held his breath. He felt he was going to die for a moment.
“Shelley! Anything of yours in here that I haven’t read yet?” Byron said nonchalantly.
Percy looked at him a bit nervously, laughing.
“Ah — that’s not my notebook, it’s John’s!”
“Oh. I see. No doodles, and no Greek . . . of course not. Well, sorry. You probably don’t want me reading it,” He said.
He handed the notebook to John across the small table.
“Actually, you’d find quite a lot of Greek in there, but mythology rather than the language itself,” John replied, reaching for the notebook.
“More than in mine, believe it or not. Even his writing in English is somehow more Greek than my Greek. But John, please let him read Hyperion! Byron, you have to,” Percy pleaded.
“Is that what you’re working on at the moment? Percy told me you write a lot,” Byron said.
He took the notebook back and flipped through it's pages. Percy leaned over and swiped through until he found some of Hyperion — what he knew John considered to be one of the better parts.
“Oh, yes. I’m thinking of submitting it somewhere to be published — I don’t know yet. I’d like to turn it into a longer story if possible,” John said.
He watched intently as Byron read his work with his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. Byron proceeded to get comfortable in a flippant sort of way by throwing one of his legs over the arm of the couch and leaning on a pillow.
John decided that he would take this as a lesson in bravery.
Percy had once told him he had to start showing his writing to more people if he wanted recognition for it.
But what on Earth could be more intimidating than the guy in front of him?
——————
The three remained seated in the living room later that evening for a new meeting at the philosophy and writing club that Shelley hosted in his place. It was called The Society of Prometheus. Keats had never been but Shelley insisted he go since he was so determined to be more involved in the writing scene.
"You could get feedback on your work from others instead of fully relying on Hunt, and professor Wordsworth, and professor Hazlitt," Shelley had explained.
After reading John's Hyperion, Byron had smiled but told him he wouldn't give any feedback unless Keats went to the meeting and managed to last the entire time.
For some reason, he thought Keats wouldn't last long. Both had also informed him that Byron was always the last one to read before they gave each other critiques, which then usually descended into other topics; so it seemed to John that Byron wanted to impress him before complimenting him.
John really didn't need to be goaded by either of them too badly though. After all, he was ambitious, and not too shy either. He knew his work had potential.
It wasn't that he was afraid of being critiqued in a group; he had done such group critiques in his writing classes plenty of times before, and gone to poetry workshops outside of school.
If anything, he was hesitant to be around people who may not be as advanced as he was in knowledge or skill. He had been to too many writers meet-ups and reading events in cafés or bookstores where he had to sit through writers who clearly didn't take their craft seriously.
Their work was usually quite short, full of clichés, and where poetry was concerned it was almost always about a break-up or a crush or mental illness, drawn out subjects that it seemed were the only ones anyone in the general public ever really cared about when it came to poetry or even other forms of writing.
And it wasn't the subjects themselves he took issue with, but the way they were constantly relayed in the same terms, with the same allusions, the same analogies, and the same stilted notions of expression.
Comparing a lovers' blue eyes to ocean water, attempts to beautify the act of crying or cannibalism, some other edgy references to cigarettes or alcohol or other drugs.
John's work was altogether entirely different. It was long, it was imaginative, it borrowed from history and myth and bordered on the surreal and science-fiction. Sure, he wrote about romance and depression like anyone else. But he wanted to do something truly original.
He didn't feel like he fit in with the usual crowds, and he was worried that Percy's club may not live up to the high expectations he set for himself and others.
So he was pleasantly surprised when, toward the middle of the meeting, he realized that his expectations were met with.
After a while of conversation and refreshments, Shelley opened their small Socratic circle by reading an except of his philosophical poem Laon and Cyntha, a passage concerning women's rights. This soon broke the ice and several others showed bravery enough to read their own work, while some did not.
Some were not writers, or were only starting out after having been roped in by Shelley, like Tré and Edward, whose girlfriend Jane didn't write but was a singer. John learned that apparently Tom Moore, Claire, Caro, and Jane were thinking of starting a band with Byron and Caro's friend Isaac Nathan, who they had all collabed with or written lyrics for in the past.
Leigh Hunt read from a work he called The Story of Rimini, similarly promoting women and free love. Byron's friend Tom Moore shared some poetic lyrics which were originally intended as song lyrics, and which were inspired by Irish independence and Irish folk stories.
Tom Peacock (their other Tom in residence) shared a comedic work called Nightmare Abbey where all of them were parodied, which lifted the mood and got them all into a good laugh.
Claire shared an excerpt from a novel she was working on called The Idiot about a lone wandering woman who got lost among the Alpine climate.
Caro shared a short poem based on her experiences being queer; it was set in the past and was about a young woman who was caught cross-dressing and proclaimed mad. She also shared a fragment of a novel she was working on which John soon gathered was inspired by her break-up with Byron, as everyone went silent and struggled not to stare at his reaction the entire time she read.
Polidori, though confessing to be working on a play and a novel, shared a small excerpt from an essay he wrote on the death penalty titled On the Punishment of Death, which Byron was apparently helping him edit.
He then shared a fragment of a novella he was working on called The Vampyre which, once again, everyone stared at Byron during to gauge his reaction.
The titular character and narrator were just as clearly based on himself and Byron. Jane, clearly meaning well and not seeing the potential hazard at setting off the famously temperamental Polidori, mentioned the similarity his novella had to a short story Byron had read before called Augustus Darvell.
Both acknowledged the influence and that was that. The subject being dropped and the awkward moment passing, Percy's girlfriend Mary thrilled them all by sharing an excerpt from a novel she was now in the editing stages of. It was called Frankenstein. Judging by everyone's excitement, they had all read it or been anticipating it's being finished.
The story was set in Geneva in the past. It was about a college student studying the sciences who, as part of his own independent research, decides to create a man from dead body parts he had grave-robbed for his experiments.
John was thankful for everyone who filled him in with context. The part she shared that day was about the creature's own education in the liberal arts.
All in all, John was thoroughly impressed by most of what he had heard.
But having read Byron's work before and been stunned, and having finally been properly introduced to him earlier with the hope of further conversing thorougly planted in his heart, he was anticipating Byron's reading the most.
"If you plan on reading you should probably go now. Byron always goes last because he's dramatic that way," Claire leaned behind Percy's shoulder to tell John.
"Dramatic!" Byron said in outrage.
"You just proved her point," Hunt said dryly, causing everyone to laugh.
Hunt sat to John's left, being the one he knew best. His host Percy sat to his right with Claire beside him, while Mary sat between the intimidating Tré and Byron. All in the room were close together in an unbroken circle.
"Were you going to read from Endymion?" Hunt asked John.
Many eyes fell to him. He was starting to second-guess himself.
"Just this once, I'll go second-to-last, because I have a suspicion that John may usurp me for drama after all. I see it in his eye," Byron said.
He read two monologues from a play he was writing called Manfred. He explained that it was rather intended to be read instead of performed, and said that he hadn't performed himself in any plays since he'd gone to college, and that he probably forgot all his dramatic chops long ago as a teenager (which hadn't been too long ago at all).
Several people chuckled at this, making John assume that Byron was a talented orator and performer indeed.
He was soon proven correct.
Like everyone seemed to do, John fell into a trance as Byron stood and read the work from his phone screen. He had never seen Byron seem so serious or so intelligent before; sure, he could be both those things, but this Byron before him seemed of a much more elevated demeanor than he had ever encountered before.
John could tell the work had been written in deep contemplation. There was not much of his usual humor in it. John hung on to every syllable, some tears welling in his eyes which he forced not to fall.
When Byron was done, they all clapped louder than they had before for anyone else. Byron took it all very coolly and humbly.
Then, from directly across him, Byron's eyes met John's and seemed to twinkle, causing the younger man to blush in he knew not what emotion.
Shame? Embarrassment?
How the fuck was he going to follow THAT up?
"Your turn," Byron said to him lowly and smugly.
"Again, you don't have to," Percy whispered to John from beside him.
John never took his eyes off Byron's. The dude was still smirking.
"This is from an older piece, but one I'm quite proud of. It's called Endymion . . ."
-
And so they all chatted and talked and gave each other advice and compliments. Everyone gradually disbursed, some people making plans elsewhere, some going home because they had work or class early in the morning or were simply tired.
Tré remained talking to Mary and Claire and the three went out onto the balcony with some wine that Tré brought.
John lingered for a while around Byron and Shelley, waiting until he could exit with Byron and get him alone so he could finally find out what the man thought of his work.
From Byron's closeness and frequently glances toward him, he knew that Byron felt the same anticipation for discussion. But as the night had worn on, Byron's mood had gone from playful to more aloof and detached.
Shelley complimented Endymion and compared it to his newer work Hyperion.
Byron scoffed.
"Hyperion is a thousand leagues better than Endymion," Byron said bluntly.
"How do you suppose?" John asked him, his voice calm, collected, but inquisitive.
"Hyperion is much better writing overall. Endymion is like some sort of trippy pipe dream the entire time to the point where I couldn't understand half of it. And it relies too much on the mythological elements. I mean, I love mythology myself, but most people may not know that much about it," Byron said.
"Perhaps I didn't write it for 'most people,'" Keats replied.
"It feels like it wasn't really written for an audience in mind at all. I mean it has the vibe of something a person would write at 3 am in their Notes app just for themselves. That's like half of my work too probably. But Hyperion is so much better and I think it has potential to get published. But I think Endymion should stay in the drafts, bro," Byron explained with a dry laugh.
Keats didn't know whether to take the compliment for his one work or the insult for his other. He soon excused himself and left.
Once he was outside he began to pace in the darkness behind a small garden area past the parking lot and near the entrance, trying to collect his conflicting thoughts.
John looked up toward the balconies to make sure that Mary, Claire, and Tré couldn't see him from where he stood. He moved in the direction of the shadows.
Although he could understand some of what Byron criticism was referring to, the guy's tone had been so callous and insensitive at times. All the friendliness he thought he sensed had disappeared after he read.
And unlike all the others, Byron hadn't clapped or smiled.
He was snapped from these thoughts by the sound of that boy's voice and Shelley's. He forgot that Byron had a car, while he himself took public transportation. He tried not to groan aloud, realizing that it'd be best to wait until Byron drive off, not wanting to be spotted on his way to the train stop lest Byron should find out he had been lingering behind and listening to his and Shelley's conversation.
Which is not something John had ever planned or had ever wanted to do, but which he had then been forced to. And most of what they said was inconsequential and mindless, but then Shelley brought up John's work again, once more praising it. John felt a bit of reassurance at that.
But then Byron chimed in again and all his reassurance was dashed away on the cliffs.
Once again he said that Hyperion 'wasn't half-bad.'
But then he told Shelley what he had really thought of Endymion, and in far more colorful language than he had told John. Although Percy defended John, and he wasn't mad at him, the things that Byron said were truly indefensible.
John would never forget the things he said; among them that John was insane, tasteless, masturbatory (more than once and in increasingly childish and vulgar terms), self-serving, arrogant, pretentious, that John was "probably on drugs when he wrote it," unserious, amateur, "clearly an earlier work of his," and that the only good thing about it is that it made Hyperion look so much better in comparison.
It took every ounce of self-control that Keats had not to storm out of the bushes and punch Byron in his stupid mouth.
He imagined what the man would look like with a tooth missing among all his other perfectly straight, white ones.
-
Inevitably, John had to confess the entire incident to Percy, and inevitably, Byron figured out why Keats had proclaimed him enemy number one.
And inevitably, ever since then, it had been the great struggle of Percy's existence to try to reconcile his friends.