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The air is brisk and the mist hangs low between the grimy facades of central London’s residences as Will’s feet carry him over frost-painted cobbles. The reason for his being outside despite the weather is a predicament as old as time - or, well, as old as his job perhaps – the parching of his well of wit. When he’s haunted by the images of unwritten sentences, even the cold seems more welcoming than the oppressing tightness of his room. He fears that if he were to stare down on his paper for one second more, he might actually go insane. For all the times people have called him an art-full genius, his head sure feels frightenedly empty now. And even when managing to string together a few meagre words, the lines are jumbled and refuse to make any sense.
He’s not really sure how the walking is supposed to help. People say it does but is has yet to reap any reward. All it has resulted in are several invitations for a drink, which seem more tempting by the second. Still, he’s hoping to stumble onto something – anything that will kick the rusty apparatus on top of his shoulder back into motion.
Maybe he shouldn’t have taken it quite so literally, he thinks, as his musings are interrupted by a head-on collision with another body. His grin widens, however, when he recognises the person, he’s stumbled into. Maybe he should be taking it literally after all. “Young Master Bottom,” he says, “what a delight to meet you here.”
Nigel Bottom is, as far as men go, probably best described as a nervous grasshopper. He’s tall and lanky and can never quite keep still. From what little Will has read of the other man’s work, Will must admit that he’s a solid writer though. Solid enough to put up with everything else about him. And if the folio, he is carrying, is anything to go by, he is currently not as infuriatingly lacking where imagination is concerned. If only Will could get a look at those notes of his. That ought to be enough to tidy him over for his next ‘big hit’.
“Mr.- Mr-. Shakespear,” Nigel stammers his eyes widening almost comically.
A fan then, Will thinks. He can work with that. Carefully he tilts his hips just slightly to the side, positioning himself that way he knows will make his chest look broader. He puts on his most charming smile, preening a little under the attention. “Off to work, I see? Something of interest you’re working on?”
Nigel only blinks. “I-oh- yes. Nick and I are working on our new play,” he says, squeezing the pages a little closer to his chest. His eyes dance around nervously, finally settling back on his shoes.
Will steps a little closer still. “Oh, pray tell, what is it about?”
Nigel’s flinches and the grip on the folio tightens. “I-I’m not sure I should say.”
Not quite the reaction Will was hoping for. He repositions himself slightly, tugging at his shirt to show a little more of his chest. “The Bottom brothers still together then,” he says, souring slightly at the mention of Nick Bottom’s name. Of the two Nick was always the one more hot-headed, the driving force of their troupe, while Nigel liked to keep in the background. Will thinks of it as a blessing really. There is no real competition to fear, after all, if the one brother is too busy tearing himself apart, while the actually talented one is too afraid to even seek the spotlight. He-
Will stops. He has to hold back a pleased laugh as an idea strikes him. He’s heard about the Bottom brothers’ struggle to finance their play. So, if he plays his cards right, he might not even need to get his hands on Nigel’s work right now. If only he could- He grins.
“I say,” he leans closer, a playful smile on his lips, “in my humble opinion your talent has always outshone his.”
Nigel only frowns. “Don’t say that. Nick is a brilliant writer.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Will says, slowly circling Nigel, making sure his hips are swinging the way he knows will look the most seductive. “I’m just saying that a man as cultured as yourself,” he places a deliberate hand on Nigel’s shoulder, “could have much potential…expanding his catalogue.”
Nigel swallows, the grip on his folio tightening. “What are you saying?”
Will sighs, taking a step back in favour of dramatically staring into the half-distance. “I’m saying, young Master Bottom, that I’ve read your work,” Will notices with satisfaction the way Nigel’s eyes widen, “and I would be willing to give financial compensation for some services.”
“Y-you’re offering me a job?” Nigel breathes.
“If you’d like to call it that.” Will brushes imaginary dust from the other’s shoulder. “I assure you I am willing to pay handsomely.”
For a moment, Will thinks Nigel might relent. He can see it in the way his teeth clench. So, the rumours about the money must be true after all. But then Nigel shakes his head resolutely. “I-it’s a very kind offer, Mr. Shakespeare-”
“Please, call me Will,” Will says, baring his teeth. His efforts are lost however, as Nigel isn’t even looking at him.
“Will,” Nigel corrects, “but-but,” he sighs, “Nick and I are a team. I can’t just leave him.”
Will’s smile dims for the first time that day. He can’t believe what impertinence he’s hearing. Never has someone turned down an offer to work for William Shakespeare! And Nigel isn’t even seeing him. Wasn’t he star-struck by Will’s presence only a few minutes ago? Then why is he refusing to fall victim to Will’s negotiation tactics now?
“I see,” Will says, running a hand through his hair in a last desperate attempt to gain the other’s attention. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he says, stapling his winning smile back into place.
Success might have eluded him now. But as much as the encounter has bruised his ego, it has also left him with a taste for blood. Nigel Bottom presents both a mystery and challenge – a sheep that refuses to tremble in the wolf’s presence, even after having one of its legs ripped off.
And Will is hungry for more.
Giving Nigel a last look that is a little too long for comfort, he turns to leave. “See you around, young Master Bottom.”
Nigel feels the weight of the world sitting on his shoulders, as he raises his hand to knock on the inconspicuous wooden door before him. He throws another nervous glance over his shoulder, the same way he’s been doing all his way here. The street remains empty.
The longer the silence behind the door stretches on, the more he convinces himself that this is all a terrible idea. He doesn’t want to think about the things Nick would have to say about his plan. He might disown him, throw him out onto the streets, or worse, forbid him to see a Shakespeare play ever again.
But Nigel can’t take it anymore – the heavy desperation leaking into their lives and threatening to drown them all. He’s noticed the looks Nick keeps sending in the direction of their money box. And he’s sick of Nick telling him not to worry. In a way that only serves to make the worrying worse. He wants to help. He’s not a little boy anymore. He doesn’t have to be carried. He could help. But Nick would rather ruin them all than admit that.
Nigel flinches as the door gets pushed open in one swift motion. “Well, I’ll be damned,” William Shakespeare says, leaning against the door with a grin. “If it isn’t young Master Bottom.” He’s shed his signature jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal his lower arms. There is ink all over his hands, like Nigel just interrupted him mid-work.
That thought alone makes Nigel feel faint. To think that he caught a genius working on what could possibly be the greatest work of their time. He’s- that’s not what he came here for. He needs to focus.
He takes a shaky breath, gripping the strap of his satchel. “I-I came to ask for that job you offered me,” he says, not managing to meet the other’s eyes.
He can see Will’s grin widening though. There is a weird twinkle in his eyes. Something that Nigel can’t quite place. “Wonderful,” he says, clapping his hands, “let’s start then.”
Nigel frowns. “What-like now?”
Will laughs, pushing open the door. “Why, creative genius doesn’t wait, young Master Bottom.” He guides Nigel inside by the small of his back. “Let me show you where real art is made.”
Nigel blinks as he steps into the dark and surprisingly modest interior of the house. He spots a small fireplace, a bed, shoved into a far corner and a row of bookshelves. It doesn’t look like the sort of house William Shakespeare would live in. Then again, Nigel never really thought about what William Shakespeare’s house should look like.
Will’s hand lingers on his back as he leads them into the next room. He keeps doing that, Nigel notices dazedly.
He can’t help but compare this Shakespeare to the Shakespeare Nick kept warning him about – the talentless liar he kicked out of their acting troupe. It feels impossible to imagine when the man next to him seems to be oozing talent and charisma so thick it’s almost beguiling. It takes all Nigel’s restraint not to throw all his questions at Will at once.
“And this is where the magic happens. Well, some of it anyway.” Will motions at a table, leaning onto its top in a weird looking pose. He sighs dramatically. “Writing does make one so vulnerable, don’t you think?” He strokes his hand along the table’s surface, trailing it with a wistful look in his eyes. “Stripping you of everything, leaving you practically naked in front of the reader.” He smiles with that same unplaceable twitch around his lips.
Nigel only hums. His eyes are glued to the many stacks of paper strewn all over the room. He can’t help but think that a masterpiece could be within them somewhere. He doesn’t know where to tread, too afraid to ruin anything. He holds onto the strap of his bag, slowly feeling a familiar panic creeping up on him.
He takes a deep breath. If he wants to prove to Nick how helpful he can be, he’ll have to make good on that promise. He looks back up, hesitantly meeting Will’s eyes. “So, um, what is it you want me to do?”
Will blinks. “Do?”
Nigel frowns. “In the job, that you are paying me for?” he asks slowly. “What is it you want me to do?”
Will blinks again. “I want you to write, of course.” He laughs as if Nigel had just said something particularly funny. “Aren’t you a writer?”
Nigel stares at him. “Yes, but what do you want me to write about?”
“Oh.” For a moment, Will seems genuinely taken aback. Then, just as quickly, his smile snaps back into place, and he motions at the paper on the desk. “Just write…something. I have great faith in your judgement, young Master Bottom.” He smiles that weird smile again, leaning unnecessarily close to the tabletop.
Nigel licks his lips. “You-you just want me to write…something?” Carefully, he treads closer. There is a tingly feeling inside his stomach, something he knows used to be there whenever he thought about writing, something which years of routine and working with Nick slowly managed to extinguish – anticipation.
With Nick it’s always, ‘write this’ and ‘write that’, never being listened to, never having the last word in anything. Always bending to Nick’s newest idea, always being talked over, always being the younger brother. Will’s offer on the other hand feels like…freedom. For the first time in a really long time, his fingers itch to pick up a quill and just…write.
Will clears his throat. “Well, I’m sure I can give you some of my current works to look over. To improve.” He steps around the table, pulling up a second chair and then hovering just by Nigel’s shoulder. “Not that they would need improving.” He laughs, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “But, as they say, the climax of endeavour is best achieved whenever several parties…unify their efforts.” He trails of, smirking slightly, before handing Nigel one of the quills. His hand lingers on Nigel’s for just a second.
Nigel takes it, still not really comprehending what’s happening to him. Not only is Shakespeare asking him to work for him but he’s even asking him to work with him. He feels like the bells outside should be singing a hymn to this glorious day. He’s so ecstatic he doesn’t even think to question Will’s weird behaviour. “Well,” he says, laughing disbelievingly. “Show me what you’ve got then.”
“Oh, young Master Bottom,” Will says, walking back to his own chair, after giving Nigel’s shoulder a firm squeeze. His eyes catch Nigel’s and something as intense as fire flashes through them. “I think it’s going to be a pleasure working with you.”
“Oh, Nigel, I fear I might die,” Will says, sighing dramatically before resting his head on the stack of papers before him. “The words that I should be the Master of, have made me but their humble servant.” He sneaks a glance at Nigel who is annoyingly still staring at his notes. He sighs again, louder this time and poses dramatically.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Nigel says, without even looking up. His forehead is creased and a bit of tongue is peeking out from between his teeth.
“Oh, I assure you it is,” Will says. He puts his quill down, considering his half-empty parchment, before sending a jealous look in Nigel’s direction, who’s inspiration and will doesn’t seem to waver. Deciding he won’t be getting any more work done anyway, he instead engages in his new favourite activity.
Taking his chair with him, Will scoots around the table. Then, leaning closer, so far, that he’s almost breathing down Nigel’s neck, he asks: “What are you working on?”
Nigel hums, still not looking up. “Some verses for the confession scene you wanted me to write.”
Will mimics his hum, fingers playing with a piece of wax that’s dripped onto the table. The problem with Nigel is that he’s a temptation in many regards.
He’s a temptation of Will’s craft, running around with a folio full of ideas - a whole head of them even - that scream to be channelled through Will’s genius. If only he could get a look at them. Something that has proven a lot more difficult than anticipated.
Which brings them right to the second temptation, which is Nigel himself. It’s not him exactly that’s tempting. Sure, Will may admire the way the other’s hips curve, the way his hair curls and the elegant expression of his lips, but even these can’t quite make up for how his limbs seem just a little too long or how he has all the grace of a newborn foal. No, more so it’s everything else about him. The way Nigel seems almost entirely oblivious to whatever moves Will is trying to pull on him. How he’ll get tunnel vision as soon as there is an empty piece of parchment in front of him. Even Will’s touches he only registers with a slow blink most of the time.
It’s fuelling a fire deep inside of Will which he can’t really put into words. It’s like he’s been challenged to a peculiar game of wills, only that he’s the only one to know about it. People don’t just ignore the things William Shakespeare says. After a while, everyone bends to his Will - see what he did there?
Will rests his head on his folded hands, batting his eyelids at Nigel. “May I have a look?”
At that, Nigel finally looks up. “Oh no. I’m not sure. I-,” he stammers. “It’s not finished yet.” And then he turns an honestly ridiculous shade of red.
Will watches the entire thing with apt fascination. He can’t fathom the idea of Nigel staying immune to his many flirtations when even just talking about his writing would put him in such a fluster. “Doubting your words, young Master Bottom?” he teases, grabbing the parchment without any further warning.
“Oh no-I- don’t read that,” Nigel cries, trying to snatch the paper back from Will’s hands.
“If love is a sickness, then find me no cure, for it is only love that I know to be pure,” Will recites. He stops, lowering the parchment. Then he raises it again, mumbling the lines to himself several more times. He can’t help but enjoy the way they roll off his tongue.
“I- it’s not finished yet,” Nigel repeats, fidgeting with his hands the way he does when he’s nervous. Then, carefully he asks, “is it that bad?”
It’s good. It’s really, really good. Will wishes he wrote it himself. The lines vibrate inside of him, creating emotions he doesn’t really know how to feel. “Doubting love itself, are we?” He chuckles, desperately struggling to regain composure. “It’s a little…pedantic,” he says then, more hoarsely than his purported assessment would warrant. For a second, all he can do is swallow.
Then, abruptly, he slams the parchment onto the table, plastering his smile back into place. “It’s still better than this though.” He motions at his own measly lines.
Nigel, too, seems relieved at the change of topic. He’s still a little red around his cheeks but rolls his eyes, nonetheless. “It can’t be that bad.”
“No, I’m sure it’s horrible. You’ll have to read over it again,” Will insists, flipping back his hair.
Nigel only sighs. “Give it here then.”
Will hands him the parchment and moves to sit right next to him. It’s a little closer than appropriate perhaps, their shoulders touching and Will practically melting into his side, while Nigel scans over the lines.
“I think it’s good, Will,” Nigel says, after an almost torturously long time. “But perhaps it would work better if you’d write it from the perspective of the brother?” He hums, marking a few words that don’t quite fit the pentameter. “And then you could-”
“Introduce the sister later?” They both say in unison.
Will grins.
And perhaps that is the most dangerous temptation of them all – it’s so easy to fall into a rhythm, working with Nigel. Sometimes it seems like Will won’t even need to steal any of his ideas, when Nigel gives them to him so willingly. With Nigel he almost feels like the genius everyone else makes him out to be.
Sometimes at night when he is writing, he finds himself wanting to ask Nigel about something only to realise the other isn’t there. Sometimes it’s so dangerously easy to give into the urge of playing his ideas off one another, that Will has to remind himself that being his writing partner is not what he hired Nigel for. That this is going to end as soon as Will has the idea for his next big piece and can finally unfold his own genius. Or when Nigel will have enough money to crawl back to that horrible brother of his.
But for now, Will can just pretend. He watches the way the candlelight reflects off Nigel’s face, and a weird feeling settles in his stomach. He’s sure it’s nothing, though.
“Nigel! I knew I would find you here!”
At the sound of a familiar voice, Nigel looks up from where he and Portia are bend over a book of her favourite poetry. Portia is still giggling about something he’s said, their fingers lazily intertwined. He feels a soft warmth inside his chest. He’s never met someone who understands his love for words like Portia does. Well, that is of course except for-
“Will,” Nigel says, frowning. “What are you doing here?”
Will beams at him, rocking back and forth on his feet, obviously trying to hide something behind his back. “Well, word is-” Nigel can tell exactly the moment Will spots Portia beside him. His smile, up until now open and warm, instantly changes, becoming wider and all the more unnatural for it. The mischievous glint inside his eyes is replaced with another, colder one. His entire postures changes, his movements suddenly calculated and forced casual. “And pray tell who is this delightful lady, this maiden fair, this feast for the eyes?” he asks, grinning suggestively.
“Oh, yes,” Nigel says, chuckling uncomfortably. He can’t really say why, but the thought of introducing the two puts a heavy feeling inside his stomach. It’s like a mountain top colliding with the ocean floor – two worlds that were never meant to be next to each other. “Will, this is Portia,” he explains, shoving his friend closer to the bard.
Portia, for her part, is completely unresponsive, staring at Will with wide eyes.
“Most charmed,” Will says, bending down to kiss her hand and throw her another of his looks.
Nigel supresses the urge to roll his eyes. As much as Will is known for his smooth talking, he seems to be laying it on extra thick today. Nigel has gotten well-acquainted with his strategy over the weeks. He knows all the compliments Will uses to woo his opponent. It’s a strategy so frequently implored that Will even invented a new word for it – bedazzle.
Even Nigel himself had been victim to it when Will was first trying to get him to accept this job. Nigel knew it had meant nothing then, that Will must have been hard-pressed to find anything to compliment about him, whereas he should have more than enough to say about Portia.
It shouldn’t bother him. Portia deserves every compliment Will could possibly come up with. But, while working with him, Nigel has gotten so used to a different version of Will, that being confronted with this…performance now more than annoys him. How could a man who finds words so honest have nothing to say but hallow lies?
He’s not sure he could ever like this version of Will. There is no warmth in his smile, and where the real Will’s touches are soft and comforting, these one’s are controlling and calculated. Nigel watches with disgust, the way Will takes Portia’s hand to draw her attention away from him.
He wonders, silently, if this persona is some sort of defence mechanism for the bard. Something to cope with the fame, easier than exposing himself to the crowds. He’s not sure what Will would need to defend himself against Portia for, though.
“What is the word?” he probes, more than done with watching Will making doe eyes at his friend.
Will turns back to him and Nigel is saddened to see that his smile remains superficial and bright. “Oh, yes! Word is there will be a Shakespeare event in the park later today,” he says. “I was wondering if you’d care to come?” In his eyes, Nigel believes he can recognise a glimmer of his usual warmth.
“Really?” he asks, suddenly feeling a little strange. “Y-you want me to come?” He licks his lips
Will sends another look in Portia’s direction. “Your…girlfriend here is of course welcome to join,” he says, placing himself at a weird angle between Nigel and Portia, still smiling but with a strange tension to his back. He sets a firm hand on Nigel’s shoulder.
“Oh, s-she’s not my girlfriend,” Nigel laughs, his neck burning at the suggestion.
“She’s not?” Will asks, giving Portia, who is still wordlessly staring, a once over. His eyes linger on her, before turning back to Nigel. They hold an intensity that shocks Nigel for a moment. “Well, she’s free to come either way,” he says, forcing a short smile.
Finally, he claps his hand. “I’ll have to be off then. Much to do.” He bows slightly. “I’ll see you later, young Master Bottom.” He grins. “The lady.” Then he’s gone just as quickly as he came.
Nigel stares after him, plain confused by Will’s weird behaviour.
“Oh my god,” Portia lets out, seemingly freed from her stupor. “That was- that was William Shakespeare!” She screeches. “You’re on first name basis with William Shakespeare!” She grips him by the shoulders, jumping up and down excitedly.
Nigel chuckles. “I guess I am.”
“God, I can’t believe this!” She takes a few steps back, breathing heavily. “How do you know William Shakespeare?!”
Nigel scratches his neck. “I-I guess you could say I work for him?”
“Work for him?!” Portia screeches again, causing several people to throw them some funny looks. “How did that happen?”
Nigel frowns. “I don’t know. H-he just hired me.”
“He just hired you? Like that?” She probes.
“Yeah, like that.” Nigel agrees, suddenly aware of how ridiculous that sounds. His frown deepens. “He was trying to bedazzle me for weeks.”
Portia laughs. “Bedazzle?”
Nigel nods. “Like he was just trying to do with you?” He mimics Will’s weird pose, which draws a snicker from Portia. “Only there was a lot more touching.” He shakes his head. “I wonder why he keeps doing that,” he mutters.
Portia blinks. Her mouth opens several times, as if she’s about to say something, before she finally closes it again. When the smile returns to her lips, it looks a little forced.
Nigel laughs. “Anyway, Shakespeare in the park, right? How cool is that?”
“Yeaaah,” Portia says, and for a moment Nigel thinks he can see that glint in her eyes that he’s so used to seeing in Will’s.
“How could he say something like that?” Nigel mumbles against Will’s shoulder. He is, of course, referring to the scene Nick Bottom had made earlier that evening, storming out of the marquee with a dramatic air Will much admired.
It’s a shame really, Will thinks, that this had all taken such a drastic turn, when the evening had been going so undeniably well. Nigel had turned up just as instructed and Will had given one of his best performances this decade, if he dare say so himself. And even though that… energetic young lady had accompanied Nigel and stuck to his side like a leech during the entire performance, Will had managed to separate them during the afterparty and get some well-deserved moments with an adorably tipsy Nigel.
That might have been one of the best revelations of the evening – to find that Nigel Bottom is a light weight when it comes to drinking. Will can’t recall anything that had ever brought him more delight than the slight red tinge of Nigel’s cheeks or the way his feet wouldn’t quite carry his weight anymore. It really had been a sight for the gods. That is, of course, until Nick Bottom had to show his hateful little face and the tent had been flooded with crazed Puritans.
Will had been relieved to find Nigel in the chaos afterwards, voicing his desperations to a puddle of mud.
“How could he say something like that?” Nigel repeats, in a tone so sad that it’s too much even for Will’s cold heart to take, at least in this late-night stage. Will might not be as susceptible to the wine as his companion but he still feels that familiar rush of a good performance in his veins and, perhaps even more so, the rush of Nigel’s looks deep inside his stomach.
“He’s your brother. He loves you. He worries,” Will says, heaving the two of them through a narrow alleyway. He can’t believe that he should be defending Nick Bottom of all people. And against his younger brother at that.
Nigel frowns unhappily. “People keep saying that,” he slurs. “But it doesn’t feel much like love at all.”
Will chuckles. “And there is that doubting of love again, are we sure you’re not a Puritan?”
Nigel doesn’t respond, too busy falling asleep against him. Will sighs, wrapping and arm around Nigel’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get you to bed.”
Nigel doesn’t protest when Will guides him through the, by now, deserted streets of London. He only hiccups from time to time, clinging to Will’s jacket like a lifeline.
The worst thing, Will thinks as he feels Nigel’s breath right next to his ear, might be that Nick Bottom is right about it all. It has always been Will’s plan to steal Nigel’s work and pass it off as his own, even if on a smaller scale than Nick had accused him of. He readjusts his grip on the limp form stumbling at his side. No, the worst thing might actually be, that Nigel chose to trust him over his brother. That even after all the rumours and Will’s admittedly questionable behaviour, Nigel sought only to see the good in him. Too trusting and kind to even consider that Will could betray him.
Will’s heart squeezes as Nigel lets out a sigh. It seems he has become the villain of his own story.
He brings Nigel back to his house, because he doesn’t know where the Bottoms live and he’s not sure he would make it out alive if he tried to find out. Instead, he deposits Nigel on his own bed, struggling for a few seconds, when Nigel refuses to let go of his shoulder. In said struggle, the bag around Nigel’s shoulder comes undone and clatters to the floor. William bends down to pick it up, suddenly finding himself face to face with Nigel’s folio. His breath catches.
He has to suppress a laugh. To think that after all these weeks he would finally hold it in his hands. And under these circumstances. He traces the seams of the pages with awe. These notes alone could tidy him over for the next couple of plays. And it would have the added bonus of getting rid of Nick Bottom for good.
Then, Nigel lets out a sleepy sound and Will’s eyes snap back to the limp form in his bed. He suppresses a smile at the sight of Nigel sprawled out over the covers, drooling onto his pillow. He picks up one of the blankets, pulling it up around Nigel’s shoulders and feeling the by now familiar squeeze, when Nigel turns back around. His chest aches as he watches the content expression on the other’s face.
Suddenly, the world tilts off its axis. For a moment, it feels as if the ground beneath his feet has disappeared. He’s falling faster and ever faster until all that’s left is dizziness. Is it- no, it can’t be- he’s not- love?
He looks back down at Nigel’s face and a sky of thousand stars sings inside of him. He can only stare for a second, the fear gripping his heart tightly. It can’t be. William Shakespeare doesn’t fall in love. People fawn over him not the other way around. He laughs unbelievingly. No, why should he lose his heart to Nigel Bottom of all people – sweet, caring and trusting Nigel and- oh god. He buries his head in his hands. He is in love with Nigel Bottom.
He looks at the book in his hands, the words so tempting and only a page away, then back at Nigel’s sleeping face. Two paths of possibility stretch before him. One straight (see what he did there?) and comfortable whereas the other is rocky and steep, but honest. Honest. With a long-suffering sigh Will puts the folio back in Nigel’s bag, making sure it’s securely stored. He lingers on Nigel’s face, feeling the familiar squeeze, he only now recognises.
The revelation is frightening. He doesn’t know what to do about it. The rush feels forbidden - not only to love a man, but also the brother of his worst enemy and possibly the only person who could not ever love him back. It’s ironic really. With most people Will would simply have to bat his eyes to take them to bed, but with Nigel, he could probably declare his undying love in a sonnet, and the other would still be interested only in his words. It’s almost maddening. And for all the plays Will has written about situations just like this, being in one doesn’t feel heroic or tragic at all.
His heart beats too fast. His hands sweat. Suddenly, his chamber seems too small, the world consumed by Nigel’s presence. He stumbles back towards the door, closing it behind him but still feeling his presence everywhere around him. When he falls asleep later, his dreams are haunted by brown curls and dimply cheeks.
“Your brother’s right, you know,” Will says over breakfast the next morning.
“Hm?” Nigel asks, cradling his head in one hand to alleviate the pain at least a little bit. He thinks he should be panicking about this a lot more – waking up in William Shakespeare’s bed, having breakfast at William Shakespeare’s table and looking at William Shakespeare’s offensively stylish morning hair – especially with the scene Nick made about the whole thing yesterday, but fortunately his head is pounding too much to even form a coherent thought.
Will stares down at the grey slime in his bowl, scowling like it had personally offended him. “About you and me working together.” He stirs its contents slowly, watching the colours blend together. Generally, he seems to be in a weird mood this morning. He keeps avoiding Nigel’s eyes and sometimes Nigel sees that deep look of sadness passing over his face. “You two are the writing team. Not us.”
Nigel frowns. “But I work for you.”
“Yes, but-” Will sighs, putting down his spoon. “Nigel, we can’t ever work as…partners. You would betray your family and-” he gestures wildly, “people like us are not meant to be together. It could never work.” He shakes his head. “You really should go back to working with your brother.”
Nigel watches him with a bewildered expression. He’s never seen Will like this. It’s almost as if he’s talking about something else entirely. He rubs his forehead. He can feel the desperation from last night slowly creeping back up on him. “But Nick doesn’t want my help. All he wants to do is write ideas that don’t make any sense. He doesn’t listen to suggestions. Doesn’t listen to anyone.” He balls his fists in frustration. “It’s almost like he’s possessed.”
Will hesitates. “Maybe you need to show him how good your ideas are. Make him fall in love with…your words, the way you made me.” His smile seems oddly tight.
“I don’t know,” Nigel says, letting out a deep desperate breath. “I’m not sure ‘love’ is going to win him over on this one.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands.
Will smiles sadly. “Doubting love once more, Master Bottom?”
Nigel only harumphs, pushing his breakfast around in his bowl. “Only doubting Nick’s ability to see it.”
Something flashes over Will’s face at that. It’s gone though, before Nigel can properly identify it. “If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for me,” Will says, voice weirdly flat. “Please.” There is a funny look in his eyes. “I can’t ask you to keep hiding us from your brother forever.”
Nigel shakes his head. Nothing about his life seems to be making sense at the moment. His brother, the one person he thought he could always rely upon, is slowly but surely turning into a madman. Religious extremists are keeping him from his best friend. And through it all, the only person who seems to be making any sense is famous playwright William Shakespeare, whose bed Nigel spent the last night in. William Shakespeare, who is sending him away for reasons Nigel can’t quite fathom. Life does have a way of writing the most unbelievable stories. He would laugh at the absurdity of it all, weren’t it surprisingly hard to breathe.
Suddenly, there is a hand on his arm. His heart stutter. Will catches Nigel’s eyes with an uncharacteristically soft look. “Hey, just-…just write from your heart. I know you can do it.” He smiles. “To thine own self be true, young Master Bottom.”
And for some reason, Will’s words do help. Nigel’s heart slows and finally he manages to draw in a shaky breath. Warmth tingles his fingertips where Will is still touching him. “I can do it,” he mutters. He still doesn’t feel very hopeful, but desperate enough to try. “I will convince Nick.”
He doesn’t catch the wistful look Will sends him at his words.
It’s that warmth he tries to conjure as he heads to the theatre the next evening, carrying the pages of his new play like a promise. If he can’t stand up to Nick for his own sake, he decides, he will have to do it for Will. Nick can’t keep holding onto his senseless feud forever. Nigel’s words will move him and then- then – everything will make sense again.
He takes a deep breath and tries to channel the confidence, Will always projects on stage, but can only feel weakness in his knees. He wonders if this is why Will pretends to be someone else.
Rehearsals go great. The people seem to love his words, which, for a moment, makes him feel like Will could just be right. That is, of course, until Nick bursts in and continues to rave about Omelettes.
“No, Nigel. We need a hit, not some play about a descend into madness!” Nick yells, throwing a few of his precious pages to the ground.
In a way, the rejection of his words feels much like a rejection of Nigel himself, of the person he is becoming through Will. He stares down at the paper, feeling like a flower snipped off, just after finally blooming. “But I know this is good, Nick,” he insists anyway, pointing at the pages. “I know it. And Will said-”
“Will?” Nick interrupts him, suddenly eerily still. “William Shakespeare?”
Nigel swallows, taking a hesitant step towards the exit. “Y-yeah?”
Nick’s eyes, on the other hand, are lit with an all too familiar rage. “You talked to William Shakespeare about our play?”
“Y-yes,” Nigel stammers. “B-but he said it’s good,” he’s quick to assure. “I swear I didn’t-”
“I don’t care what the filthy liar thinks of our play!” Nick explodes. Everyone, even the crew twitches at the volume of his outburst. “Or his play as it will soon be called.” He laughs bitterly.
Nigel shakes his head. “You’re wrong about him, Nick. Will wouldn’t do something like that.” He collects a few pages from the ground. “And he understands me. He knows how words can touch. I-”
Nick laughs again. It’s a cruel sound, the likes of which he had never heard from his brother's mouth. “Oh, I’m just he just loooves to touch.” He points a finger at Nigel’s chest. “You have to watch your back around that guy, Nige. He’s up to every trick.”
Nigel sighs. “I’m just helping him write.”
“Oh sure. Writing.” Nick drawls the word with obvious disgust. He points at the pages in Nigel’s hand. “Don’t you see that this is all he wants you for? Writing.” He turns his back stalking off the stage, stiff with anger. “I forbid you from ever seeing him again, do you understand?”
Nigel swallows. He thinks of the look in Will’s eyes this morning and the new-found feeling of confidence, he never had before. Of his desperate struggle to be seen by his brother and the way Will seems to have eyes only for him. He makes a decision. “I’m not going to help you with this, Nick,” he says, pushing the pages back into his satchel. “I’m not going to help you ruin yourself.”
Then he leaves the theatre, feeling not confident at all but only desperately lonely.
When he gets home later, Bea only needs to take one look at him to instantly interrupt her cooking. “What’s wrong?”
Nigel slams the door, making the entire house shake dangerously. “Nick, he-he-” he splutters angrily, kicking at the legs of the kitchen table. He doesn’t even know how to put the swirl of emotions inside of him into words. He’s just so angry and confused. And everyone seems to be leaving him, and nothing is making any sense! “Urg, he-he's so obsessed! And he won't listen to me! And he won't trust me and-” He sinks down onto one of the kitchen chairs, tugging at his hair with a frustrated growl.
Then, suddenly, he looks back up, an unreadable look on his face. “Bea, do you think Shakespeare is a bad person?”
“What?” Bea chuckles, stepping closer while wiping her hands on her apron. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”
Nigel looks down at his feet. “I-I might have been working for him for some time now.”
He expects her to be angry, to start spouting the same arguments Nick keeps repeating, to kick him out onto the streets for hoodwinking her husband. Instead, she laughs heartedly. “Oh, so that's where you've been sneaking off to! I thought you were meeting with that Puritan girl Nick forbade you to see.”
Nigel blushes. “I-I may have been meeting with her too.”
Bea laughs even louder. “Let me guess, he wasn’t amused?”
“No,” Nigel sighs. He shakes his head. “I-I just don't get it. First, Will sends me away, because ‘we can't keep hiding us from Nick forever’. And then, Nick gets angry at me for writing the play, he wanted me to write and-” He balls his fist, punching at nothing. “I-I just don't get what I did wrong! What does he want me to do!?”
Bea sighs, sitting down next to him. Her arm comes to rest around his shoulders. He instantly feels a little better. “Sometimes people have weird ways of expressing their love, you know,” she says. “Sometimes when they think they are being selfless they are actually just being stupid.”
Nigel only grunts in response. He takes a deep breath. “Nick he-he kept saying all that stuff about Will. How he only wanted me for my writing and how he would try to steal from me and-” he sighs, “Will is not like that. He-he's kind, he cares and supports me.”
Bea hums, thoughtfully running a hand through Nigel's curls. “You know that Nick's not very good with change.” She pulls him closer to her chest. “To him you will always be his baby brother just as much as Shakespeare will always be a play-stealing fool.”
Nigel sighs, resting his head on her shoulder. “But that’s stupid.”
Bea gives him a firm squeeze. “Sometimes loving someone means sticking with them even if they're being stupid.”
Nigel doesn’t have anything to respond to that. “Sometimes it feels like I’m surrounded only by stupidity,” he grumbles.
Bea smiles. “I have to admit - you do have terrible taste in men.” She laughs. “Though maybe I shouldn't judge.”
Nigel raises his head, blinking at her. “What do you mean?”
She grins, patting his shoulder before getting back to her cooking. “You'll get there.”
Will will admit that part of him was hoping to see Nigel’s face when he opened the door to an insistent knock. That part of him which is still a hopelessly romantic kid is already planning their escape to the countryside - sharing a small cottage, passionate kisses and sonnets under the cover of the darkness of the night. He knows he’s deluding himself, but still his traitorous heart won’t surrender, inventing romantic scenarios with surprising imagination for someone who is usually so frustratingly lacking it.
What he was not expecting was to find Nick Bottom’s wife scowling at him as if he’d been the cause of all her problems. Which, to be fair, he might have been. For a moment, he can’t decide which might be worse - her coming here to confront him for being in love with her husband’s brother or her coming here, accusing him of trying to steal said husband’s work. He manages to arrange his lips into a smile either way. “The infamous Mrs. Bottom,” he drawls, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Beatrice Bottom does not seem at all pleased by his charming greeting. Quite on the contrary, her expression sours immediately as she pushes past him without so much as an introduction. “Cut the crap, Shakespeare,” she says turning back towards him with an honestly frightening glare. “I need you to frame Nigel and Nick for stealing your play.”
“I-you-…what?” Will asks eloquently, closing the door behind her.
She pinches the bride of her nose, beginning to pace the length of the room. “As you might know, today was opening night for their new play. But then they managed to get themselves arrested by some insane Puritan with a grudge against my husband,” she shakes her hands as if questioning the gods, “and now they’ll get beheaded if you don’t frame Nigel for taking your play so we can all be banished to America.”
Will blinks. “Wait-wait go back? They were arrested and are going to be beheaded?!” The words don’t really make sense to him. Nigel? Arrested? Impossible when he was sitting at Will’s table only a day ago.
“Yes, by that awful brother Jeremiah. But don’t worry,” she laughs almost maniacally. “I have a plan.” She points in his direction. “By turning the accusation to fraud instead, you’ll be able to influence the judges as the main victim of their scheme. And then you can send us all to America.”
Will sits down heavily. His thoughts have started spinning. Slowly but surely, it is dawning on him that she is serious about it all. He feels a wave of sickness crashing over him. Oh, Will should have known that brother of Nigel would get him into trouble one of these days. “No-no,” he says, shaking his head. “This can’t be right. Why would they- I don’t-”
Bea steps up to him, shaking him by the shoulders. “You need to get it together, Shakespeare. I won’t have my husband beheaded because of your crisis.”
“But I can’t lie to the judges!” Will insists. “Nigel wasn’t planning to steal my play- or-or…was he?” For an awful moment, Will thinks he might have misjudged the entire situation. Then he tries to imagine Nigel going behind his back and dismisses the idea immediately.
Bea rolls his eyes. “Of course he wasn’t. That boy would rather amputate his leg than disappoint you.” She narrows her eyes. “So, you better not disappoint him now.”
Will chuckles bitterly. He knew about the look of admiration in Nigel’s eyes, of course. But to think about it now, when he can feel its weight sitting on his shoulders, seems only a cruel joke. “Oh, I’ll help.” He massages his forehead. “But there has to be another way.” He thinks. “I-I’ll just tell the judges Nigel was working for me- and then- then they will have to go easy on them. I-” He feels his line of reasoning slipping through his fingers.
Bea softens. “And what are you going to say was your relationship to him?”
“I-” Will tries, struggling to find a word that could adequately describe the things he feels, before realising there was really only ever one reason, why he kept Nigel around. He deflates.
Bea smiles sadly, and if Will is not entirely mistaken, he can see something like understanding in her eyes. She squeezes his arm. “I’ve thought this through. The only way is for us to go to America.”
Will shakes his head. He can feel the ground crumbling beneath his feet. “You-you keep going on about America. You-you can’t just go to America.” He won’t ever see Nigel again, he doesn’t say. But he thinks Bea understands anyway. He tries to imagine it, spending the rest of his life without Nigel’s smile on the other side of the table. Trying to write anything without having Nigel there to bounce his ideas off. It’s a little crazy to think that even though they’ve only known each other for such short a time, the thought frightens him more than he could possibly say.
Selfishly he thinks about how he won’t ever get to tell Nigel how he feels. That they will never kiss in that cottage outside the city. That he will never hold him. He’s not sure he could survive that. Already, his chest feels impossibly full, like he’s about to burst. And it hurts, it hurts even more than being cut by a thousand shards of glass and yet feels better than the first rays of morning sun.
Another squeeze. “It’s the only way,” Bea repeats, with more ferocity.
He keeps shaking his head. “H-he’ll be angry at me,” he tries, feeling the desperation dragging him down with its familiar heaviness. He imagines the look of hurt on Nigel’s face as he spews these horrible lies about him. For a moment, a laugh wants to wrench from his chest. How ironic, he thinks, that he should accuse Nigel of such a thing, when it was actually Will who planned to steal Nigel’s work.
Bea smiles. “I’ll tell him what you did.” That you did it for him, she doesn’t say.
The idea is still impossible. But then images of Nigel’s body, lifeless and limp, invade his head. Nigel as he is being led onto the gallows, axe glimmering dangerously in the morning light. The murmuring of the crowd as metal meets bone. What’s the point, he thinks, in being selfish, if the thing he desires most is just as likely to be taken from him? What’s the point of clinging to a fantasy when that’s all it is anyway? And what is love if not wanting the best for the other?
Will lets out a shaky breath. He needs to get his act together (see what he did there?) “I’ll do it,” he says, feeling as if he’d just signed his own life away. His hands shake, as he runs them through his hair.
Bea nods. “Thank you.” She stands. “I’ll let you know when you need to be there.”
He can only nod numbly as she departs. On the inside, his thoughts are swirling. He feels unsteady on his feet, so he sits behind his desk, which only makes him think about Nigel again. His eyes won’t even do him the favour of watering. Instead, he stares blankly at his parchment, feeling for the first time in a really long time, so full of words that he fears he’ll explode if he doesn’t let them out.
And so, he writes. He writes and writes all night long. Until he’s broken all the quills in his house and has to continue writing only with a stump. Until his hands cramp and his back aches. He writes about his fears and all the words he wishes he could say but knows he will never get to. He writes about a prince who is full of anguish for a great loss who realises his life has no meaning. A prince who is so depressed that he wants to kill himself but can’t even make up his mind about that. A prince, who’s true love is forced into religious exile and therefore descends into madness. He writes until the morning sun peeks across London’s roofs, and he falls asleep at his desk from exhaustion.
It’s Nigel’s first time in a court room, but the way things are going, he’s sure it’s going to be his last too. Nick is not helping with the nonsense he is spouting. In his mind, Nigel conjures images of black birds circling over their corpses. He wonders what the blade to his neck might feel like. If anyone is going to miss them. Weirdly, he finds himself thinking of Will and what his reaction would be. Would he grieve? Or would he simply move on?
Nigel spends most of the trail utterly convinced that things could not possibly get any worse. That is of course until a man, who is very obviously Bea in a costume, steps onto the floor and keeps accusing Nick of having lost his head. Nigel feels like he’s lost his too.
“Sorry,” Bea whispers to him as she eventually calls for some mysterious witness - probably some lunatic she’s picked up from the street. For a second, Nigel is confused what she is apologizing for. Then Will struts into the room and Nigel’s heart stops.
His relief is short lived, however. Because while the man claiming centre stage might be William Shakespeare it’s most definitely not Will. “If it pleases the court,” Shakespeare says, bowing dramatically. He is wearing some ridiculous collar around the back of his neck.
“Oh, the court is very pleased,” the judge says, laughing.
Nigel doesn’t feel like laughing at all. While this version of Will might be confident and obviously the better choice for swaying the vote, he can’t help but miss the other Will, his Will. The one who would send him a reassuring smile right about now, make sure that Nigel is okay.
Nigel’s smile falls even more when Will starts telling his story. He keeps going on about how Nigel infiltrated his home to get his hands on Will’s play and- Nigel can’t believe his ears. Does Will really think that Nigel could betray him like that? That he would betray him like that?
Then he’s hit by an even darker thought. What if Nick was right? What if this had been Will’s plan all along. Maybe he had offered Nigel the job only to frame him later, so that he could take out the Bottom brothers once and for all. And naïve Nigel believed that Will truly was his friend. Naïve Nigel fell in lov-
Nigel can do nothing but stare, as the world suddenly loses all its colour. Oh god, he thinks, steading himself again the wall. He’s in love with Will. Suddenly all the strange feelings that haunted him the last weeks seem to make sense. And the looks that Bea and Portia kept sending him! He must have been so obvious.
“You’re saying Bottom was only working for you to steal your great play?” the judge asks.
“Why else would he, when he was clearly still working with his brother?” Will cries, pointing an accusing finger in Nigel’s direction.
“I- ”Nigel despairs. He had managed to convince himself that he was only doing it to offer financial stability to his family, but when he thinks back to those evenings now, it was never about the money for him. It was about seeing Will and finally having someone with whom he could talk about writing without feeling guilty or overlooked.
For a moment, he feels like a fool, like another fan who fell victim to the easy charms of William Shakespeare. Who let himself be manipulated and used just like Nick said. After all, how could he possibly expect William Shakespeare to love him? It’s like expecting the sun to love you back.
But then, he thinks about that look in Will’s eyes, and realises it was never Shakespeare he was in love with and it was never Shakespeare who loved him back.
“You see?” Will cries triumphantly. The flame inside him burns so bright he seems to be practically glowing. “So, if a just ending is not written here today then on my stage shall I replay these events with these characters and there shall I see fair justice done,” he proclaims.
“You would make me look the fool in one of your plays?” the judge asks, clearly not pleased by the turn of events.
Will smiles charmingly. “Not if you spare their lives and see those mischief-makers banished. Send them off this royal throne of kings, this England.” He’s laying it on thick now, gesturing wildly.
Nigel swallows. Leaving England. Will is asking them to spare their lives.
And then, for the first time that day, Will catches his eyes and Nigel sees the look of pure desperation inside of them. The same that he feels deep inside his stomach. And, suddenly, he understands. Will is doing all of this to save them. He is trying to frame them.
Nigel wants to jump to his feet, ask Will to stop this madness now. What’s the point of living, he thinks, if he’ll never get to see Will again? What’s the point if he’ll have to leave all of this behind now that he finally understands? Selfishly he thinks about how he won’t ever get to tell Will how he feels. That they will never kiss under the guise of the night. That he will never hold him. He’s not sure he could survive that. Already, his chest feels impossibly full, like he’s about to burst. And it hurts, it hurts even more than being send away by his brother yet feels brighter than bird’s song. He wants to scream, but Bea holds him back, giving him a knowing look.
“Well, that is the more elegant version,” the judge admits. “I shall grant it.”
Nigel doesn’t even hear the hammer fall. All he can hear is his own stuttering heartbeat. All he can see is Will who’s laughing at something one of the jury members said. Then, the guards grab him by his arms, dragging him towards the exit, to be placed back into prison until their departure.
Will struts passed them, not granting Nigel even a single glance. Nigel’s breath catches. “So, this was your plan all along?” he calls. “Get us out of the way, steal my work and pass it off as your own?” He hopes desperately that Will can tell what he really wants to say.
For one frightful moment, he thinks Will is just going to ignore his comment and keep walking, but then he stops. He turns slowly. “Getting beheaded would have been out of the way as well,” he says, grinning. The sight is such a stark contrast to the pain inside his eyes.
He places a hand on Nigel’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. The contact sets Nigel’s chest alight. For a moment, he fears he won’t be able to breathe. Then, as if putting all the meaning he could possibly give into the words, Will says. “The world is better with you in it, young Master Bottom.” He retreats his hand. “Just not mine.”
Nigel can’t help but let out a desperate laugh at that. Then, he sobers. “Thank you,” he says, thinking not only of their lives spared but of everything else. The many nights sitting at a table together and the many words only Nigel got to hear.
Will shakes his head, nodding in direction of Bea who is currently embracing Nick in a fierce hug. “You have her to thank, not me. She was quite insistent we needed save you for the sake of love.” He hesitates. “Honestly, I don’t know what she sees in him.”
It feels so much like a question of what Nigel could possibly see in him. But how could Will not know? How could he not recognise the look in Nigel’s eyes? A man so adored by the masses that he’s blind to the love he’s given.
Nigel can feel tears burning behind his eyes. He wants to reach out and pull Will against him. Take his face and feel his skin under his fingers. Press his lips to the others in one last desperate attempt to say what words won’t ever be able to hold. But he can still feel the watchful eyes of the guards behind them. So instead, he smiles and hopes against hope that Will will understand anyway. Because he could never live with leaving Will thinking he didn’t care.
“Doubting love are we, Master Shakespeare?” he breathes, almost chocking on a sob.
Will freezes. Then the walls around him crumble and Nigel sees the raw sadness behind them. The ongoing fight not to break under the unbearable pressure of unfairness and lost possibility.
Will tries to smile but struggles to keep the corners of his mouth upturned. “Never.” Then, with a last squeeze of Nigel’s shoulder, he is gone, carried away by the crowd before anyone can see his tears.
Much later
“Did you hear?” Nick says, bursting into Nigel’s office without so much as a knock. A few papers stray from Nigel’s messy desk, floating to the ground. “Shakespeare has a new play. They say it’s his masterpiece.”
Nigel doesn’t look up from his work, but his heart, even after all these months, squeezes at the mention of the name. He stares at the empty pages before him, wishing he could make sense of it all somehow. Lately, the words refuse to come to him the way they used to. “Yeah?” he asks forced casually. “What is it called?”
“Hamlet.” Nick snickers. Paper rustles, as Nick turns the pages. “They’ve included a quote. Here listen to this: doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love.”
Nigel stops his battle of wills with the empty paper, his hand suddenly shaking. “That-Shakespeare wrote that?” he asks. Inside his chest a storm long passed but never quite forgotten is brewing.
Nick nods. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Very pedantic.”
At that Nigel, can’t help but laugh unbelievingly. Where the deep pit of darkness used to sit inside his chest a single ray of sunshine has touched his face. He smiles. Then he picks up his quill, suddenly full of words once more.