Chapter Text
“So guys, that thing earlier- when I asked for advice for my writing, you were joking, right?” William Shakespeare asked, inspecting his hair in the mirror.
Gabriel Spenser scoffed in the process of undoing his shoelaces. “Tell ‘im, Jonson.”
“Obviously,” Ben Jonson said from the corner of the dressing room. It wasn’t exactly one of those luxury retreats for actors often in the higher ends of town, but it was the Elizabethan era. It was either take it or leave it. “Everything we said in that bastard pub was all sarcasm,” he added, making faces in a handheld mirror by a bored-looking Kit, “’course I wasn’t joking, you spod. We do things the proper way.”
Shakespeare winced, but before the three men could see his expression, he busied himself with shuffling papers on the makeshift desk by the door.
“Not writing another play, are you, nerd?” Spenser drawled, sneering at Shakespeare’s innocent reflection. “God, the whole world has had enough of your stories. I once met a chap who quoted he worked on fifteen novels at once. All while running a bloody theatre, y’know, recruiting actors and such. No one ever wanted to play the one who got their exit pursued by a bear…”
“And what happened to him in the end?” Marlowe asked, a tinge of curiosity in his question.
“Tripped over one of the props on the stage and got mauled to death. By the bear.” Spenser added, as an afterthought.
Shakespeare let out a timid laugh, covering his mouth after. “Surely that was on him? He ran the theatre.”
Jonson stood up at once, reaching for his sword at his belt. “What say you, Bill Sasquatch?” Marlowe held the mirror up invasively in Jonson’s face, earning a smack on the hand.
“It’s William Shakespeare,” Shakespeare muttered, turning around in his seat to see the tip of a sword pointed at him, “And I say nothing, nothing really of- of great importance.” He trailed off, turning to dip a discarded quill in a pot of ink.
“Hm. So be it.” Jonson declared, sitting down and looking at Marlowe expectantly. “Mirror.”
Marlowe huffed and held the mirror up again, in which Jonson smirked in.
“Right. Family’s not in, who wants drinks at my place?” Spenser announced, hands on hips.
Jonson put his hand up, and Marlowe did the same with his free hand.
“I mean, I don’t mind-” Shakespeare started, shrugging as he scratched his quill on the paper in front of him.
“Except Wolly Sharkpole here,” Spenser laughed raucously, and clapped his hands. “Right, lads, come on.”
Jonson and Marlowe followed him out the door, chatting loudly, the slam of it punctuating the silence. Shakespeare sighed, chucking the quill down. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror; at least he still had it going in the looks department, if his fame for plays was truly over. It wasn't always about the fans and attention and love; it wasn’t ideal for him or Anne to have play references hurled at them when shopping or taking a walk. He had to admit, it’s what kept his motivation lasting. To get words on the page, to write that first scene. Having an idea was like planting a seed in the soil. Writing it was the growing process, and in the end, after blood, tears and sweat would be the towering tree, or the work he had written. Full of characters so real you could touch them, see them in real life, and eventually that came true. Peasants would crawl up on the stage, begging for a part in Hamlet, or Venus and Adonis. Shakespeare often thought, and often explained to other playwrights, that it was like having your imagination come to life. They didn’t seem to understand it.
He shoved the stack of papers away like a child with a finished plate, and scraped back the chair. It didn’t matter if those bastards zombied by beer didn’t like him, though he couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness.
A knock came out the door, opening before his confirmation. Someone holding a wedge of cheese in front of their face stood in the doorway, backlit by a candelabra. It was Anne, Shakespeare thought for a split second, before seeing dark brown hair and a black tunic.
“Hello?” Shakespeare asked, feeling terribly awkward. The person twirled on the spot, before taking the cheese away.
“Ugh, you’re supposed to ask where I’ve gone!” Marlowe whined, gesturing with his cheese wedge. “Master of disguise and all that, it worked on them!” Shakespeare sighed audibly - he knew Marlowe didn't have a penchant for starting fights easily like Jonson or Spenser, but he still had to be particular about what he said. “Speaking of them, I was horseless! Someone bloody took the last one!”
Shakespeare made a noise as if to hint it was expected of Spenser and Jonson to do exactly that. He saw Marlowe’s fallen expression, and felt unusually bold.
“What say we take a trip to the nearest pub?” Shakespeare asked, the corner of his mouth turning up. Marlowe eyed him suspiciously.
“Propose you that we get inexplicably drunk and brainstorm fascinating ideas for a play we will be sure to remember the next morning if we don’t scribble them down in a haze?” He peered at Shakespeare, who made an uncertain face.
“Hmm, not exactly, but that idea sounds much more exciting.” Shakespeare rejoiced. He blew out the candle on the desk and opened the door theatrically for Marlowe, who bowed with his cheese wedge, and followed him out.