fic 35 - epitases [keats/byron]
title: epitases
fandom: 19th Century Literature / Poetry
pairings: Keats/Byron
rating: R
synopsis: . Keats isn’t sure whether the sudden feeling of being without a stomach is because he detests Byron, is incredibly embarrassed, or because he is as drawn to him as everyone else seems to be.
author's note: I do not have a suitable summary for this and I still can't believe I wrote it. Obviously, it's pretty niche but hopefully it's not too disgustingly esoteric despite being set c. 1820. I am a complete geek, I apologise. When I wrote this, I really didn't think it'd ever see the light of day. It's kind of faulty in places but I hope not garrishly so. So, uhm, enjoy?
word count: 2000w approx.
When they meet their eyes don’t. (Meet that is. They won’t look at each other.) They shake hands begrudgingly, each knowing that every other person in the room understands the subtext. (They hate each other. Or rather, they hate each other’s opinions.) They shake hands and then withdraw. Byron brushes his hand against his trouser leg under the table, as if he were cleaning off dirt.
They’re with a group sat across a few tables in a pub. There are a lot of people and neither knew the other was coming despite the fact that the same person invited both of them knowing this would happen. (Later, Byron will pull Shelley aside and whisper in his ear, how dare he have invited the Cockney poet without telling him, how dare he have done it.)
The group fragments the way these circles always do. Certain sets talking individually of works the others disdain and all overhearing at pauses in their own conversation things which they consider heretic. It takes until most are fairly drunk for anyone other than Byron to be bold enough to bridge the gap though. Every person around the table has a certain amount of respect for every other, regardless of their thoughts on Southey or Wordsworth or whomsoever else is being discussed. No man wishes to offend any other for fear of the anonymous, mocking reviews another man (perhaps even one he likes) might write against him. Excepting these two, who care so little for each other, every man has a degree of care for the views and approbation of any other.
The pair are careful not to let their conversations cross in the same way they avoid each other’s eyes. Once, Byron cuts into a conversation in which Keats is involved but, as he does so, the groups divide and Byron is talking to the people with whom Keats was conversing and Shelley has, somewhat tactically, begun singing Keats’ praises to the gentleman sat on his left.
Keats, in such situations, generally comes out tongue-tied, anxious and out-of-his-depth. He has the knowledge, perhaps even the charisma to follow it, but lacks the authority, the finesse, the traditional education and, most importantly, the class to pull it off. One of Keats’ friends once told him that class was a state of mind, no one will know how much tax your father pays if you wear your frock coat with a certain abandon and pronounce on all matters as if you own them. Keats has never believed it, nor tried it, and most likely never will.
Byron, in all situations, comes off grand, stuck-up and yet, somehow, dreadfully amusing. He has charisma enough to convince most people on any matter regardless of whether he himself agrees with the proposition or even has any depth of knowledge concerning it. He is perhaps a little too flippant, too quick to say things which will offend but no one questions him, they would say that it was just his way, but for anyone other than a lord it is certain such behaviour would be insufferable. Byron’s greatest flaw is perhaps that there is something a little too intoxicating in his presence so that people often find themselves agreeing with him on matters in spite of the fact that they might well have been appalled by his views coming from any other person’s mouth. Keats finds he suffers this a little.
It is in Keats’ very nature to detest Byron, even without his immeasurable arrogance, because of what he is. The same can be said of Byron’s feelings toward Keats. They are ideologically opposite. Byron may admit, upon Keats’ death, that his poetry was not so dreadful as he had previously pretended but neither will allow himself to like the other. It is a matter of principle. The only difficulty is that Byron, all wit and satire, pulls people in like a freak show. (You go in wishing to be disgusted but you come out buzzing with the breath stolen by something you’d never dare to do yourself.)
The first time they meet, Keats is fascinated in spite of himself and listens to Byron talking in the background behind every conversation he has with this or that person (some of whom he’s looked up to since he was still dealing in medicine). Without meaning to, he lets Byron’s voice pull at his attention, a puppeteer with strings, working the room. Probably, everyone is listening to him and it’s not just Keats. Even the remarks which appal him make his skin tingle. Keats tells himself that it is precisely his dislike for Byron that evokes such a reaction. He is trying to find things to fault him on. (His opinion on Napoleon is ludicrous. The way he laughs verges on tragicomic. He is too absurd.)
The second time they meet, there are no common acquaintances to force them to speak with one another. Unfortunately though, this does not prevent the occurrence.
Keats is eating dinner in an eatery which is rather more stylish than he can afford but Severn, the man with whom he is dining, has just received a more than fair sum for a portrait and is paying the cost of the meal for them both. Byron enters late in the evening, flanked by a rather large harem. Keats scoffs at him and tells Severn that the foolish looking man who has just entered through the door is Lord Byron. Severn smiles but tells Keats not to be so terribly bitter. After this exchange, they ignore Byron’s presence as much as is possible. (He’s is really rather loud, already quite drunk and surrounded by women who emit unflattering shrieking laughter at two minute intervals.)
As the pair are clearing out though, Byron accosts them and asks if they’ll take him along. He’s fed up of the noise and can’t afford to pay the bill besides. He doesn’t offer them the opportunity to turn him down and leaves ahead of them before they’ve answered. Keats gives Severn a look conveying his disdain and is met by an amused grin.
They had been planning to each go their separate ways after the meal but the appearance of such a remarkable wild card guest has them in a less glamorous establishment drinking and smoking whilst Byron monologues, occasionally provoking the other two into giving responses which he then refutes. Once or twice Keats proclaims fairly loudly that whatever it is Byron is saying is complete and utter shit. He feels bolder on his home turf, two to one, met with the reality of Byron’s limp and his pennilessness. Keats has wondered before what would have become of Byron if he weren’t six foot tall and a lord but last time it had to do with his fame. This time Keats is wondering whether he might perhaps get along with him a little better.
In the end it turns out that Byron doesn’t have anywhere to stay. He was banking on staying with some woman but he doesn’t think he could stand that right now. He might have to pretend to be charming. He laughs. Severn suggests that Byron stay with Keats. This is supposed to be a joke but Byron says “if you wouldn’t mind” and won’t be dissuaded from the idea despite Keats’ pleas that it really isn’t his house and it’s in rather a sorry state.
There is only a room between the two of them and they enter the house whispering and tripping over hall furniture. As they close the door to Keats’ room behind them Keats starts laughing at the look he can imagine spreading across Brown’s face when he sees that Byron has stayed the night in his house. (It’s Brown’s house and Brown has grown to detest Byron’s persona almost as much as Keats does. Although, he has been taken in a little by the poetry.) Keats is almost happy to end up sleeping on the floor just for the story it will make. Byron, on the other hand, has other plans. He has toured Europe. It is quite normal to share a bed in Europe. And although Keats surely has a sneaking suspicion of what this might mean (of what most young men who tour certain parts of Europe go there to do) he never quite reaches the adequate conclusion and agrees to share because he’s drunk and tired and not prepared to have a debate on the subject.
The sex is, well, Keats finds it slightly mystifying, surely he knew of such practices but not through more than odd suggestions which explained nothing and certainly did not prepare him for the act itself. Byron finds it vaguely disappointing. A poor reproduction of previous experiences and Keats is inept and not nearly so supple or young as he would have liked. And it’s dark and quiet and he has to sleep there the whole night because it’s really far too late and he has nowhere else to go.
When Keats’ wakes up Byron’s arm is over him, heavy with the weight of truth and shame but coloured strangely with protection. (Protection which is surely meant for pubescent European boys whose language he doesn’t understand but whom he can pay for and look after rather than for contemporaries who he disdains.) Keats gets up, dresses and goes downstairs without waking Byron. (He is not sure how he manages this but, to be fair to Byron, neither Keats nor Severn had come close to equalling him in alcohol consumption the previous evening.)
Keats explains to Brown how Byron had entered the restaurant late the previous evening and recounts events up to stumbling into the house. Brown says that he supposes Keats was forced to sleep on the floor but not before having laughed a little about the bizarre nature of the encounter (and of Byron himself). Keats calls Byron, amongst other things, presumptuous and an example of the deepest problems of the class divide in England without mentioning whether or not the floor was indeed where he slept.
Just as Keats is relating the full details of Byron’s embodiment of the contemptible aristocracy, he hears the man himself descending the stairs and announcing his departure.
Keats sees his guest, of sorts, off down the hallway. Byron turns and smiles a sort of smug farewell as he stands at the top of the steps down into the garden, looking Keats in the eye for what might be the first time in either of their meetings. Keats feels as though his stomach has been removed and it’s not a comfortable feeling so he just stands there, looking (perhaps gaping) with Byron smiling a triumphant sort of smile. Keats isn’t sure whether the sudden feeling of being without a stomach is because he detests Byron, is incredibly embarrassed, or because he is as drawn to him as everyone else seems to be.
They meet only once more. It is another of Shelley’s grand poetic get-togethers fuelled by his unreasonable optimism. (Surely, everyone will share ideas and views and become enlightened in one way or another.) This time their eyes meet over horribly trivial matters. When someone says something Keats finds unreasonable he looks to see Byron’s response. Only neither can tell quite what the other is thinking and Byron often, without breaking his gaze, comes up with a comment Keats is sure cannot reflect his opinion (or anyone’s reasonable view at all) perhaps as an attempt to override the searching glances.
After the meeting, Shelley whispers in Keats’ ear that he thinks Byron is coming around to him. He’s a horrible snob but he’s coming around slowly. He even made a complimentary remark toward a poem, Shelley can’t remember which one or what the comment was but he considers it a gesture.
All things considered though, Keats is still glad that he doesn’t come face-to-face with Byron again.
fandom: 19th Century Literature / Poetry
pairings: Keats/Byron
rating: R
synopsis: . Keats isn’t sure whether the sudden feeling of being without a stomach is because he detests Byron, is incredibly embarrassed, or because he is as drawn to him as everyone else seems to be.
author's note: I do not have a suitable summary for this and I still can't believe I wrote it. Obviously, it's pretty niche but hopefully it's not too disgustingly esoteric despite being set c. 1820. I am a complete geek, I apologise. When I wrote this, I really didn't think it'd ever see the light of day. It's kind of faulty in places but I hope not garrishly so. So, uhm, enjoy?
word count: 2000w approx.
When they meet their eyes don’t. (Meet that is. They won’t look at each other.) They shake hands begrudgingly, each knowing that every other person in the room understands the subtext. (They hate each other. Or rather, they hate each other’s opinions.) They shake hands and then withdraw. Byron brushes his hand against his trouser leg under the table, as if he were cleaning off dirt.
They’re with a group sat across a few tables in a pub. There are a lot of people and neither knew the other was coming despite the fact that the same person invited both of them knowing this would happen. (Later, Byron will pull Shelley aside and whisper in his ear, how dare he have invited the Cockney poet without telling him, how dare he have done it.)
The group fragments the way these circles always do. Certain sets talking individually of works the others disdain and all overhearing at pauses in their own conversation things which they consider heretic. It takes until most are fairly drunk for anyone other than Byron to be bold enough to bridge the gap though. Every person around the table has a certain amount of respect for every other, regardless of their thoughts on Southey or Wordsworth or whomsoever else is being discussed. No man wishes to offend any other for fear of the anonymous, mocking reviews another man (perhaps even one he likes) might write against him. Excepting these two, who care so little for each other, every man has a degree of care for the views and approbation of any other.
The pair are careful not to let their conversations cross in the same way they avoid each other’s eyes. Once, Byron cuts into a conversation in which Keats is involved but, as he does so, the groups divide and Byron is talking to the people with whom Keats was conversing and Shelley has, somewhat tactically, begun singing Keats’ praises to the gentleman sat on his left.
Keats, in such situations, generally comes out tongue-tied, anxious and out-of-his-depth. He has the knowledge, perhaps even the charisma to follow it, but lacks the authority, the finesse, the traditional education and, most importantly, the class to pull it off. One of Keats’ friends once told him that class was a state of mind, no one will know how much tax your father pays if you wear your frock coat with a certain abandon and pronounce on all matters as if you own them. Keats has never believed it, nor tried it, and most likely never will.
Byron, in all situations, comes off grand, stuck-up and yet, somehow, dreadfully amusing. He has charisma enough to convince most people on any matter regardless of whether he himself agrees with the proposition or even has any depth of knowledge concerning it. He is perhaps a little too flippant, too quick to say things which will offend but no one questions him, they would say that it was just his way, but for anyone other than a lord it is certain such behaviour would be insufferable. Byron’s greatest flaw is perhaps that there is something a little too intoxicating in his presence so that people often find themselves agreeing with him on matters in spite of the fact that they might well have been appalled by his views coming from any other person’s mouth. Keats finds he suffers this a little.
It is in Keats’ very nature to detest Byron, even without his immeasurable arrogance, because of what he is. The same can be said of Byron’s feelings toward Keats. They are ideologically opposite. Byron may admit, upon Keats’ death, that his poetry was not so dreadful as he had previously pretended but neither will allow himself to like the other. It is a matter of principle. The only difficulty is that Byron, all wit and satire, pulls people in like a freak show. (You go in wishing to be disgusted but you come out buzzing with the breath stolen by something you’d never dare to do yourself.)
The first time they meet, Keats is fascinated in spite of himself and listens to Byron talking in the background behind every conversation he has with this or that person (some of whom he’s looked up to since he was still dealing in medicine). Without meaning to, he lets Byron’s voice pull at his attention, a puppeteer with strings, working the room. Probably, everyone is listening to him and it’s not just Keats. Even the remarks which appal him make his skin tingle. Keats tells himself that it is precisely his dislike for Byron that evokes such a reaction. He is trying to find things to fault him on. (His opinion on Napoleon is ludicrous. The way he laughs verges on tragicomic. He is too absurd.)
The second time they meet, there are no common acquaintances to force them to speak with one another. Unfortunately though, this does not prevent the occurrence.
Keats is eating dinner in an eatery which is rather more stylish than he can afford but Severn, the man with whom he is dining, has just received a more than fair sum for a portrait and is paying the cost of the meal for them both. Byron enters late in the evening, flanked by a rather large harem. Keats scoffs at him and tells Severn that the foolish looking man who has just entered through the door is Lord Byron. Severn smiles but tells Keats not to be so terribly bitter. After this exchange, they ignore Byron’s presence as much as is possible. (He’s is really rather loud, already quite drunk and surrounded by women who emit unflattering shrieking laughter at two minute intervals.)
As the pair are clearing out though, Byron accosts them and asks if they’ll take him along. He’s fed up of the noise and can’t afford to pay the bill besides. He doesn’t offer them the opportunity to turn him down and leaves ahead of them before they’ve answered. Keats gives Severn a look conveying his disdain and is met by an amused grin.
They had been planning to each go their separate ways after the meal but the appearance of such a remarkable wild card guest has them in a less glamorous establishment drinking and smoking whilst Byron monologues, occasionally provoking the other two into giving responses which he then refutes. Once or twice Keats proclaims fairly loudly that whatever it is Byron is saying is complete and utter shit. He feels bolder on his home turf, two to one, met with the reality of Byron’s limp and his pennilessness. Keats has wondered before what would have become of Byron if he weren’t six foot tall and a lord but last time it had to do with his fame. This time Keats is wondering whether he might perhaps get along with him a little better.
In the end it turns out that Byron doesn’t have anywhere to stay. He was banking on staying with some woman but he doesn’t think he could stand that right now. He might have to pretend to be charming. He laughs. Severn suggests that Byron stay with Keats. This is supposed to be a joke but Byron says “if you wouldn’t mind” and won’t be dissuaded from the idea despite Keats’ pleas that it really isn’t his house and it’s in rather a sorry state.
There is only a room between the two of them and they enter the house whispering and tripping over hall furniture. As they close the door to Keats’ room behind them Keats starts laughing at the look he can imagine spreading across Brown’s face when he sees that Byron has stayed the night in his house. (It’s Brown’s house and Brown has grown to detest Byron’s persona almost as much as Keats does. Although, he has been taken in a little by the poetry.) Keats is almost happy to end up sleeping on the floor just for the story it will make. Byron, on the other hand, has other plans. He has toured Europe. It is quite normal to share a bed in Europe. And although Keats surely has a sneaking suspicion of what this might mean (of what most young men who tour certain parts of Europe go there to do) he never quite reaches the adequate conclusion and agrees to share because he’s drunk and tired and not prepared to have a debate on the subject.
The sex is, well, Keats finds it slightly mystifying, surely he knew of such practices but not through more than odd suggestions which explained nothing and certainly did not prepare him for the act itself. Byron finds it vaguely disappointing. A poor reproduction of previous experiences and Keats is inept and not nearly so supple or young as he would have liked. And it’s dark and quiet and he has to sleep there the whole night because it’s really far too late and he has nowhere else to go.
When Keats’ wakes up Byron’s arm is over him, heavy with the weight of truth and shame but coloured strangely with protection. (Protection which is surely meant for pubescent European boys whose language he doesn’t understand but whom he can pay for and look after rather than for contemporaries who he disdains.) Keats gets up, dresses and goes downstairs without waking Byron. (He is not sure how he manages this but, to be fair to Byron, neither Keats nor Severn had come close to equalling him in alcohol consumption the previous evening.)
Keats explains to Brown how Byron had entered the restaurant late the previous evening and recounts events up to stumbling into the house. Brown says that he supposes Keats was forced to sleep on the floor but not before having laughed a little about the bizarre nature of the encounter (and of Byron himself). Keats calls Byron, amongst other things, presumptuous and an example of the deepest problems of the class divide in England without mentioning whether or not the floor was indeed where he slept.
Just as Keats is relating the full details of Byron’s embodiment of the contemptible aristocracy, he hears the man himself descending the stairs and announcing his departure.
Keats sees his guest, of sorts, off down the hallway. Byron turns and smiles a sort of smug farewell as he stands at the top of the steps down into the garden, looking Keats in the eye for what might be the first time in either of their meetings. Keats feels as though his stomach has been removed and it’s not a comfortable feeling so he just stands there, looking (perhaps gaping) with Byron smiling a triumphant sort of smile. Keats isn’t sure whether the sudden feeling of being without a stomach is because he detests Byron, is incredibly embarrassed, or because he is as drawn to him as everyone else seems to be.
They meet only once more. It is another of Shelley’s grand poetic get-togethers fuelled by his unreasonable optimism. (Surely, everyone will share ideas and views and become enlightened in one way or another.) This time their eyes meet over horribly trivial matters. When someone says something Keats finds unreasonable he looks to see Byron’s response. Only neither can tell quite what the other is thinking and Byron often, without breaking his gaze, comes up with a comment Keats is sure cannot reflect his opinion (or anyone’s reasonable view at all) perhaps as an attempt to override the searching glances.
After the meeting, Shelley whispers in Keats’ ear that he thinks Byron is coming around to him. He’s a horrible snob but he’s coming around slowly. He even made a complimentary remark toward a poem, Shelley can’t remember which one or what the comment was but he considers it a gesture.
All things considered though, Keats is still glad that he doesn’t come face-to-face with Byron again.