Since I failed miserably at NaNoWriMo...

[gemgemgembird]

...you may have some of the stuff I did manage to produce. At least I achieved enough that it has to go in two posts, though, right?

Essentially, I wrote historical fanfic where Kit Marlowe mas MAJIK POWAHZ as well as all that other shit to deal with.

I.
Most people, when they think back on their lives, they have one point where they say “Yes, this is where I realised I was different to everyone else.” Or the same, sometimes, since an awful lot of people are incredibly dull.

Kit Marlowe, on the other hand, has a short series of those moments, most of which involve some kind of hideous embarrassment. Getting jumped on by a barmaid in a Cambridge tavern, for example, was the one where he realised he definitely wasn’t going to get married any time soon. The thought of heaving bosoms and- and- that made him want to throw up, and it wasn’t just because of the Friday fish dinner (a rather unfortunate choice considering the circumstances, although it’s not like he really had a choice in that matter). And then there was the time he found out about all this magic business, which was even worse because he set fire to Walsingham’s beard and had to make up a bullshit story about sparks from the fire and how frizzy facial hair in that sort of weather was simply awful for catching fire like that.

The most memorable, and least embarrassing, of those moments was the one where he first met Will.

William Shakespeare, better known as Will or ‘that fucker with the accent who writes your plays better than you did and trips over his own feet’, seemed to just turn up in London one day with a ratty-looking pile of paper and the most pathetic-looking set of puppy eyes Kit had ever seen. Clearly this was a country boy in need of some corrupting, and when he walked into the Mermaid without taking the dreamy look off his face it became clear that it wasn’t going to be especially difficult.

“...Alright,” said Kit, sidling up to the newcomer. “You might want to pay a bit more attention if you’re going to drink in here, people like to-”

He whirled around, caught a flying tankard in mid-air and turned his most charming smile on Will. “They like to fight. Kit Marlowe, by the way.” He stuck his hand out for Will to shake, hovering for a moment as the taller man just stared.

“Um... You might want to... say something?”

Will jumped. “Oh, right. Sorry. Will Shakespeare. I only got back from Stratford last week and I- hang on, Kit Marlowe?”

Kit nodded. “The very same. Don’t use that as an excuse to run away, mind. I’ll only be disapppointed, and as any of the regulars here will tell you, an evening with a disappointed Christopher Marlowe is an evening where the windows get smashed.” He paused for effect, trying not to laugh as Will nervously avoided eye contact.

“...I’m joking, William. Well, mostly. Come on, you look like you need a drink.”

As it turned out, Will did need a drink, if only to make him start acting like a normal human being. The rumours were already whizzing around about him; half the city said he was mad, and half said he was a genius, but all anyone knew for sure was that he never seemed to be quite with it and he wrote a damn fine poem.

“Filth, William,” Kit said as he thrust another mug of ale into Will’s hand. “Absolutely disgusting. You ought to be very proud.”

“Ah, it was just a translation.”

Kit nodded. “Yeah, Ovid. We all know what that’s all about, you mucky pup. Some of us have been to university.”

“...I thought you said you studied divinity?”

“We don’t talk about that. Ever. I only told you because you look like you might forget about it completely.”

Will frowned. “I won’t. I don’t forget things that easily.”

“So I’ve heard. Quick to memorise your lines, apparently, even when you didn’t write them. Impressive, but I’d like to think you’re not so quick in every aspect of your life.”

“...What?”

Will’s confusion was met with an innocent(ish) smile. “Nothing, dear William. Nothing at all.”

“Was that a joke about-?”

“...No.”

“But-”

“It was a passing comment, darling, now drink your beer and we can fuck off somewhere else.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” sighed Kit, “You’re going to get beaten up or worse in here, and for some reason I’ve taken a shine to you. I’d rather not see that pretty face get damaged just yet, you’ll make no money with half an ear missing and no teeth.”

“I can write. I don’t need looks for that.”

“There’s no money in the writing. Showing off at the front of the stage, that’s where all the gold and the glory is. That’s where you want to be.”

Will nodded, finished his drink and gave Kit a very serious look indeed. “I’ll take your advice, Mr Marlowe. You know these things better than I.”

“Ugh, stop being so formal. It’s Kit to you, and you’ll soon find out that that’s because I know absolutely nothing apart from fancy words and how to make a perfectly innocent sentence sound dirty. Oh, and I can fight. That’s about it.”

“I... Right. Well... I’m a great admirer of your fancy words. You’ve been writing for some time, haven’t you? You must be older than you look, certainly older than I am.”

Kit glared. “I look fucking twelve if I go around clean-shaven.”

“Alright, sorry, I wasn’t trying to be offensive. I’m only twenty-two myself.”

“Right. Fine. We’re the same age then, more or less.”

“And yet you’ve written Tamburlaine, and I’m just a player who writes dross for money.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. You’ve barely even arrived in the city and people are already talking about your work. Just... come with me, and I’ll show you something.”

II.
Kit’s lodgings were dark, the candles cheap, and the fireplace empty. It wasn't so much that he didn't have any money, but paper and ink cost money and so did the bottle of... whatever it was that he kept hidden under his bed. Better to go and warm yourself by someone else’s fire than to spend your own gold (if you could get it in the first place) on barely keeping yourself alive and going half-blind in spluttering candlelight.

Will, however, was mostly indifferent to the lack of home comforts. It wasn't like his own room elsewhere was any better, and at least someone else’s fire downstairs was stopping them both from freezing to death- and ayway, he was standing in the rooms of the famous Christopher Marlowe. He'd heard certain rumours, of course, about why exactly Kit might have brought him back here at night, but he wasn’t there to judge. No, he was here to see the work of a genius, and it’s not as if Kit would suggest anything to a married man. Probably. Not that he was thinking about it, oh no.

“So... this is where the er, magic happens.” Kit sniffed, kicking a pile of papers over with one scuffed boot. “As you can see, I make my way through just as many sheets of utter crap as anyone else does. Probably more, since I take the time to make sure my plays are good rather than flinging any old shit at the theatre walls in the hope that some of it sticks in the audience’s heads. There you have it, William. The genius at work. I sit in a freezing cold room with a rubbish candle made of dripping and snot and try not to scare myself shitless with the shadows in the corner of my eye. And then when that doesn’t work, I write them into plays. You’ve seen my Tamburlaine the Great, then, I take it?”

Will nodded. “Both parts. Twice.”

“And what did you think? Honest opinions, please.”

“Honestly?” Will hesitated. “I thought... I thought I was going to shit myself, and I had weird dreams for three weeks.”

It was that sudden openness from Will that made Kit realise he’d met a friend. A man who could be trusted to tell him the truth was a rare thing indeed, and there was always a chance... Well. They’d soon see. Perhaps tonight, perhaps in a year, perhaps only in hypothetical discussion.

It was some time before Kit realised Will was still talking. He’d heard this fellow rambled almost as much as he did in his plays, but apparently rumours were true for once. Kit had thought people were joking- or at least just pissed of that someone so new to the city was getting so much attention- but no, Will really could talk for England. He coughed gently.

“Oh, sorry,” said Will. “I tend to go on a bit. It’s not intentional, I find it just sort of- oh.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. “...Have you quite finished?”

“Yes. I think so, anyway. I didn’t mean- sorry, sorry! I’ll shut up. At least, I’ll try to shut up.” Will sighed. “Eventually.”

But the thing about Will Shakespeare was that even though he talked and talked, he never really said a lot. He never gave anything away, and that was something Kit could admire. Never let people know your weaknesses, that’s what he always said, and it was something he’d believed since his early days at university. You couldn’t be too careful with your secrets, and he was starting to suspect from Will’s reluctance to say anything sensible that the other man might just have a few of his own- and possibly a few weaknesses too. Of course, Kit being Kit, he felt an irresistible urge to find out what those secrets were. He had every intention of picking them apart, and if it took a lot of Rhenish wine and Kentish friendliness to do it then that’s what he’d bloody well use.

“Here,” he said, shoving a cup of something cheap and abominably strong into Will’s hand. “You’ll like this. Probably. Either that or you’ll run out of the room crying and never come back. Either way, I’ll finally get the measure of you.” He grinned, raising his own cup. “Cheers.”

Will did... reasonably well. He didn’t cry and run away, at least, although he did cough an awful lot. And he stayed, which was something.

“Well done, dear,” said Kit, patting his shoulder. “Now do stop staring at everything like that.”

“Sorry. i just... it’s so odd to think someone of your standing lives no differently to people like me.”

“Are you kidding? My dad is a shoemaker in Canterbury. We were poor, Will. Really fucking poor, sometimes, with a brood of children and the oldest going off to school. I have no standing other than what I’ve earned through writing, and that counts for fuck all to those outside the theatres.”

Will just nods. “It’s... reassuring, actually. I mean, to know that things I want are within reach- that I might achieve success even if the trappings aren’t so apparent.”

A sly smile from Kit. “Really. And what is it you want?”

“I want- I want the things you’ve got.” Will swallowed. “You’re earning money, for a start. You’ve got glory and the makings of a fortune, and you’re not like Robert Greene either, you’ve got the looks to go with the status. And then the words, you-”

“Sorry,” said Kit, edging closer. “What was it you said just then?”

“You’re better than Robert Greene. And better looking than Robert Greene as well. But perhaps I shouldn’t talk of things like that.”

“William, are you drunk?”

WIll visibly relaxed at that, as if he was looking for a way out of his one inadvertent confession. “Oh, most probably.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “How drunk exactly? Bearing in mind, of course, that you might need to stay here if you’re incapable of getting yourself home. But it’s alright if you are,” he says, with a friendly pat on Will’s shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone if you do anything stupid.”

“Right. I think I’m alright, but we’ll soon see about that I suppose. What sort of stupid things are we talking about- singing ballads at inanimate objects, maybe?”

“Dunno,” Kit shrugs. “I was thinking something like this,” and he slid (mostly) elegantly into Will’s lap.

“...Oh.” said Will.

How interesting. Kit had been hoping to get some sort of reaction out of that, even if it was a violent one, but he had to admit this was a bit disappointing. Still, he’d managed to make the other man shut up for once.

Or not, as it happened.

“Kit, I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think- you don’t have to try and intimidate me with- I won’t get scared that you took it seriously, I’ll just-” Will’s arms flailed wildly, only stopping when Kit grabbed his wrists and held on tightly.

“Oh, do shut up. Do you really think I just picked up on a throwaway comment to frighten you? You must have heard the rumours about me, William. I’m hardly going to report someone else for merely thinking about it- especially if they’re thinking about what it might be like with me.”

Kit had never seen someone blush so much, not even those pale young nobles who rarely saw the sun. It was quite charming, particularly when he knew he was responsible.

“Come on, you just admitted as much, didn’t you? Comparing your rivals not just by talent, but by physical attributes? Bit of a giveaway, ,my dear. I wouldn’t recommend investigating Mr Greene’s person any further, though, you don’t want to catch something nasty- least of all his attitude.” He sat up slightly, finally letting go of Will’s arms. “Now, since you’ve made no attempt to get rid of me, I assume that investigating somebody’s person is more or less what’s on your mind, would that be right?”

“...Maybe. If that was agreeable to y- er- the other person, and if they showed a genuine interest as opposed to-”

“Christ Almighty,” said Kit, rolling his eyes. “I was told you were a genius. Do I have to do everything myself?”

“Not tonight,” Will purred, slipping a hand between them, and Kit had the strangest feeling that bedding this actor was going to be very interesting indeed. Full of surprises, it seemed, and-

“Fuck.”

“Oh, go on then Mr Marlowe, if you insist.”

III.
One of the posirtive aspects of Kit’s talents is that however obnoxious he is- and good god, is he obnoxious- he can still creep up beside people and scare the living daylights out of them. He likes to do it to Will, just to see his angry face.

“You’re very attractive with your face all red, William.”

“Piss off.”

IV.
Words are like magic too, of course- you can’t spend any amount of time around Will without coming to that realisation, and Kit found it out pretty damn quickly (under circumstances which he’d be only too pleased to share, if dearest William wasn’t so shy about these things). The only problem is that sometimes the words don’t come, however much you try. Write what you know, people said, only it was best that Kit didn’t write what he knew unless he wanted to be in pieces over Tower Bridge. Heresy, sodomy, vast amounts of dirt on a substantial number of nobles... Better not to think about the consequences of letting that lot slip, and yet with all of that still splattered over the inside of your mind there’s little room for beds of roses and fragrant posies and whatever other nonsense he’s been able to scribble down in the past.

If he disguised it enough though... there was probably a way. Even if he couldn’t get rid of everything, if he was clever enough he’d manage to purge his mind of some of his worries. Make it fantastical enough, and there was no way anybody would guess that- ah. That was it. If even Will, gullible country idiot that he could be, was sceptical about the idea of real magic, it was rather unlikely that any of the dullards that usually sat in the fancy seats would pick up on it. Oh, they were educated, but they liked to think of themselves as Renaissance Men who were beyond such superstitions- and the groundlings might believe it, but they didn’t have the power to do anything about it. Angry mobs didn’t chase healthy young men who were known for fighting- and winning- in tavern brawls.

So that was it. Decision made. A little sorcery, the knowledge of your own impending doom, and perhaps a touch of pretentious classical learning. And after he’d managed to get away with that Piers Gaveston thing, Kit was fairly sure he could manage a few references to that too. Finally the words came, almost too fast for his pen. Perhaps the others were right, and writing what you knew was the way to go- it certainly would be the way to go, if anyone knew how much of his soul he was pouring into this work.

If we say that we have no sin,
We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us.
Why then belike we must sin,
And consequently die.

Ah. That was... bleak, to say the least. Things weren’t that bad. Not yet, anyway.

He kept writing, squashing the lines together to make the most of his paper. As he wrote, he let his mind drift back to places and people he’d known, events in his life, anything he could draw on without being found out for what he was.

And subsequently, repeatedly, those thoughts turned back to the same thing. The same person, in fact. He'd never meant for things to turn out quite like this with Will; the country boy had been a challenge, not a goal in himself. It was meant to be one night, just to satisfy his own curiosity; Will was married, for God’s sake, not that that had ever stopped anyone else from taking up residence in Kit’s bed. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? People took up space in his bed, and that was it. They came and went, in more ways than one. Most of them were married too, of course, but they’d only wanted the same thing he had. They hadn’t turned up with endless words and accidental moments of brilliance. Not one of them had blushed at his translations of Ovid, and yet somehow managed to whisper them back at him word for word in the middle of the night. Not one had come back to spend time doing other things- and quite frankly, that was the way he liked it. No point getting attached, was there? Not when there were wives and children and estates to manage- none of which were ever going to belong to him, just like their owners never could. Not even Harry Wriothesley, and he was the sort who ate up all that shite Will wrote for cash.

But this was different; this was tempest and dreaming and even, sometimes, temperate summer days. It was wonderful and yet terrifying- Will went back to Stratford often, and there was always a prickling fear in the back of Kit’s mind that the next time he left, he wouldn’t come back. He could feel it now, urging him to write, driving him onwards to spill his thoughts in ways that meant nobody- least of all Will- would ever guess how much they really meant.

Had I as many souls as there be stars
I’d give them all-

A hand on his shoulder.

“What are you writing?”

“Jesus Christ on the sodding cross, William, one of these days I’m going to ram this quill so far down your throat you’ll be pissing ink for a week.”

“Sorry.” Fingers gently ran through his hair. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Have you eaten?”

“Don’t get all fatherly at me. I couldn’t just stop once I’d started to write, things have been dry for weeks until now. You know what it’s like, I know you do.”

WIll nodded. “I can leave you to it, if you like.”

“No. I’m already snapping at you, it’s probably time to eat. Or sleep. I can’t really remember when I last did either of those, to be honest.”

“Isn’t there something you can do with- you know?” Will waggled his fingers in a vague approximation of stage magic.

“Doesn’t really work like that. I can write a little faster, re-use spilled ink- little things that help now and then. But I’m still just a man, Will. If anything, it tires me out quicker. It’s just there, and I can’t get rid of it.”

“I know,” said Will, perching on the corner of the desk. “I can feel it in the air.”

“Really.”

“Of course. Your hair crackles with it.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Plenty of people’s hair does that. It’s a side effect of wearing so much fucking wool. Maybe if there weren’t so many stupid laws about bloody hats-”

“No, Kit, it’s... it’s different. Other people prickle when they’re like that. You’re so prickly all the time that it goes beyond and turns into something different.” He laughed, but there was poetry coming. Just like his plays, he can’t say one thing where three will do, preferably all jumbled up together. “I can see it, Kit. That twitch when there’s a storm coming and you touch another’s hand, it’s the same feeling but with colour and shape to it. It’s the colours and shapes I see in my head when I feel that twitch with others, except... more real, somehow.”

“You talk utter crap, William.”

“Yes, always. Flowery rubbish that sounds profound; tales told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. But that’s fine. Those words are still mine.”

Kit yawned. “If you really must accidentally rhyme at me, can you please explain what the fuck you’re on about at the same time?”

“I can try, but it’s just going to come out as metaphor. Fairies, probably. Or Romans. It’s usually one or the other.”

With a sigh, Kit slumped forwards and leaned on Will. “Fucksake. Just stop.”

He felt Will laughing even before he heard it- felt him shaking with the effort of trying to hold it in. It didn’t work of course, but the laughter was good-natured- it always was, and Kit didn’t mind it for that exact reason. There were very few people who were allowed to laugh at him without getting a smack in the face, but as with many things, he made an exception here.

Long, inky fingers combed through his hair once more, and he felt that crackle properly this time. Will was right, it wasn’t quite like pulling off a hat; there was a very subtle difference, a warmth about it that he’d never given any thought.

To Will, Kit’s magic was as fiery as his personality and temper. Maybe they were connected- he didn’t really know. But it had always been so clear to him, and this evening, when Kit had been working for hours, it was more obvious than ever. Kit was giving off sparks- not in some sort of obnoxiously romantic ‘like bonfires in autumn’ way, but literally giving off sparks. Flecks of red and gold snapped off his skin at the slightest touch. Was this why he was so aggressive with people? It would explain a lot about him if that was the case; his jumpiness in dark streets, the way he’d fight at the slightest provocation and have to be dragged away screeching horrible blasphemies into the stinking London air.

“Oh, Kit. Why have you done this to yourself? What did you write to get yourself like this?”

A pause, where Kit’s fingers tightened around his quill before he answered.

“I thought perhaps if I wrote it down, it would help. It did, and it didn’t. I’m less afraid with it all on paper, and yet- no. This is fucking silly. I’ve had my fill of demons and sorcery for one night. I need a drink.”

“You need your bed.”

“No, I don’t. I can’t sleep when I’m like this.”

“Then don’t.”

Kit frowned. It was unlike Will to respond like this. Even after a play, it wasn’t quite like this; there was that same buzz about him, but there it was more aggressive, more of a blaze than a glow. “Will, did you just-?”

“I might’ve done. You’ll have to decide that for yourself. But I was always the one who was better at understanding people.”

“Better at being a fucking weirdo, more like,” Kit snorted. “I never had you down as that much of a deviant. You like your partners on fire, then, do you? Oh, the questions I could ask.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, to be honest.”

Kit grinned. “Why, worried you might give too much away? I think we’re long past that, dear William. Or perhaps,” he continued, tilting his head a little, “perhaps you’re just going to perform an accidental soliloquy on temper that somehow veers off into a rant about Robert Greene’s mangy ginger pubes, putting me off the act for life and subsequently making me spontaneously combust with sheer frustration.”

“...What.”

“That would be very cruel of you. It could happen, you know. Especially with all these sparks flying around, and all this paper.”

“Now that you mention it, I have always considered you a health hazard.”

Kit did laugh at that, but it was strangely humourless. “I probably am. Like one of those insects they have in foreign climes, or a poisonous plant. Pretty, but I’ll kill you. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?”

Will recognised that edge in Kit’s voice- and carried on regardless. If humour wasn’t going to get Kit out of this mood (and hopefully into a state where he wasn’t at risk of some kind of thaumaturgical disaster) then perhaps another approach might work.

“You are pretty, to be sure,” he said thoughtfully, “and the danger is there, but it fits. It seems right for you. There can’t be harm in it, really, can there? With Nature’s own hand painted, Kit- I wrote it, but you embody it. You were born with this gift like you were born with the gift of words. Think on it, since you’re so very interested in theology and human nature. I expect you’ll come to some contrary conclusion, but I see it as beauty and there’s no mistaking it for anything else.”

V.
“...I know you didn’t write those things for me. Harry Wriothesley, wasn’t it? He was the first, at least in London.”

Will stretched, finally free of the nervous energy he carried with him everywhere and all the better for ridding himself of it. “You know about that, then.”

“Everyone knows about that, Will. Everyone. It’s only, ooh, half the city that knows about your endless sonnets about sunshine and roses and whatever else you cheerful types like to write about.”

“Oh.” Will shifted in the sheets in a vain attempt to burrow his way out of the conversation completely. “...Does it matter, that they weren’t just for you?”

“Not in the slightest. Words are words, aren’t they? If you mean them when you say them, that’s good enough for me. I’ve never been fussy, you know that.”

Except... he sort of is, nowadays. No more fumbling with boy players behind a moth-eaten curtain, or chasing after pretty young noblemen on the pretence of securing commissions. And incidentally, those commissions he does write these days are changing more than a little. The translations aren’t just those bits of Ovid’s works, for example, and even though his Doctor Faustus is still unrelentingly terrifying (at least, according to Will, who was the only one allowed to read it), the rest of his output was decidedly more... domestic. The last one, that he’d been working on for a while and saw no sign of finishing, had a rather interesting little couplet that he suspects owes more than a little to the Stratfordian verse he’s becoming so fond of.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight;
Whoever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Looking back on it, he knows it’s true, and he can’t really understand why anybody wouldn’t feel that way. His fury over Robert Greene’s nasty little pamphlet had been for his own wounded pride and reputation, of course, but just as much of that anger had been on behalf of the one man in the theatres who wouldn’t be so defensive. An ‘upstart crow’, that’s what Greene had said, ‘a tiger’s heart wrapped in a player’s hide’. Well, maybe it was true, but Kit likes that. The thing he likes best about it is that only he knows how true it is. The Queen’s Men are professionals, but none of them have had to hide what they were the way Will has, or the way he continues to do. Kit knows all about wrapping your heart in layers of stuff and tucking it away so nobody knows what’s there. Perhaps if they’d had to do the same, they’d be able to see it too- but in a way, he was glad that they didn’t. That side of Will is his, and his alone- at least in the city, and he believes even Anne doesn’t quite spot how much of it is there. A tiger’s heart indeed- you needed bravery like that to drag yourself halfway across the country on the off-chance that you were a good enough player to send the money home in your place.

Perhaps that’s why they fit so well. Everybody knows them both, but aside from each other, nobody has a proper idea of who they are. Kit’s not a dreamer; he’s got no intention of letting thoughts like this slide off into romantic ideas of soulmates. No, this is logical and sound reasoning- if others have not shared their experiences to the same degree, they will not understand the connection they share either. Simple.

Thoughts like this often lead him back to writing about the good doctor and his demon, and he’s tempted to drag himself across the room for a candle so he can scrawl a few lines before he forgets them all in sleep. But the bed is warm, and his limbs are pleasantly heavy, and after all that... writing, earlier, he finds there are a number of other things he’d prefer to do instead.

One of them involves hitting his dearest William with a pillow, because my God, does that man snore.