Ficlet
Ho-hum. I'm tired, and this is an odd pairing, but they barged into my brain, and I suppose I just have a thing for homoerotic poets.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson/Arthur Hallam, anybody?
"He was as near perfection as mortal man could be." ~ Tennyson, of Hallam, of course.
"Hadn't you a lecture, Alfred?" Hallam asked, lazily. A thin wisp of blue-grey smoke spiralled languidly from his lips in the aftermath of his words, pale against the purpling sky. Tennyson turned his head to look at him, silhouetted in hazy profile against the evanescent dusk, and smiled.
"Good God, Arthur, I ought to have been ready and waiting fully an hour ago if I'd meant to attend. Virgil wrote his damned poesy some several thousand years ago now; I'm sure he won't mind terribly if I choose not to tax my poor old brain with it until tomorrow morning."
Hallam's eyes glinted, the irises flat pale disks in the moonlight. "I rather think I may be having a bad influence on you." His voice was heavy with mischief.
"The influence of which you speak has followed and completed its irrevocable course, wreaking Satanic havoc at every turn," Tennyson agreed brightly, with characteristically undue melodrama. "Besides, I'm sure I should only have fallen asleep in the theatre. I'm most dreadfully tired."
Hallam's fingers laced easily through Tennyson's, the long sleeve of his dark gown pooling over Tennyson's wrist in haphazard folds. "Well, if you are so tired, my boy, why are you out here instead of safely tucked into your bed?" he queried, in tones of mock-paternal concern.
The quad smelled damp and sharp, like sun-dried rain and wild garlic, tinged with the heady scent of the lemon thyme that gilded the grass. English summer smells. The clean, familiar smell that had drifted through the dormitory window on warm nights when the long vac was approaching, heralding in the few blissful weeks of freedom before the autumn term began. Tennyson supposed that a vac from Cambridge would be much the same as a vac from school. No essays to write, or tutors to pacify. No endless games of enforced cricket, fielding absent-mindedly in a sector of the pitch no ball could hope to near, snatches of Coleridge turning gentle cycles through his brain. No following friends down secret corridors after the Quiet Order, gowns flying out behind like wings. It didn't seem anything approaching a year since he'd first lain here on the grass with Arthur, wishing the clocks would stand still.
"I shan't see you over the vac," he said, blankly. "I suppose one can almost elongate the term by staying up hideously late."
"Why won't you see me over the vac?" Hallam asked, with sudden sharpness, half-raising himself onto his elbows. His gown flapped about his shoulders, black against the darkening sky. Tennyson was somewhat startled.
"Well, I - er. Well, we shan't be here. Where else would I see you?"
For a breath, his heart beat anxiously, dancing fluttering minuets in his wrists, and then Hallam lowered himself carefully back down into the grass, and his pulse stopped skipping. "I'm sure we can find somewhere, for God's sake, Alfred, even if it is only somebody's club," he said, sounding half-irritated. Then, with a sudden smile wreathing his words, "How should I endure so many weeks without my best friend?"
Tennyson smiled. Hallam's pipe smouldered where he held it loosely on his chest, moonlight arcing whitely about the bowl; there were speckles of white ash on his waistcoat in the round shadow of the wood. Tennyson raised a hand to brush them away, and Hallam caught his wrist with his free hand, holding it there with gentle firmness. "I couldn't, you know," he persisted, softly. "I must see you, Alfred. I must."
Tennyson flattened his palm slowly and carefully against Hallam's chest. The ribcage shifted steadily under his fingers. "Then of course you shall," he said, in a voice that rang oddly sharp in his own ears. A silence yawned lazily between them, and Tennyson hastened to fill it. "And do please put out your pipe, if you don't intend to smoke it; it is beginning to make me quite ill."
Hallam laughed. "Perhaps I mean to smoke it later?"
"Perhaps you do, but that is no concern of mine," Tennyson retorted, and with a deft flick of his wrist he twisted his hand from Hallam's grasp and knocked the captured pipe sharply against the ground, tobacco spilling into the grass. Hallam was still smiling, his face softened by more than just the half-light, and Tennyson could not but smile back.
"I hope I have not offended King Arthur?"
"Oh, I'm horribly offended. Treasonably. That pipe had been appointed to the office of Prime Minister." Hallam grinned, and his fingers curled lightly against Tennyson's cheek.
"And I am quite convinced that your pipe would be better qualified for the purpose than Lord Wellington is." Tennyson tilted his face slightly, and his smile broadened.
Hallam's fingers ghosted over the line of his cheekbone, up into the thick dark hair. "Come, now, Alfred; none of that," he admonished, with feigned disapproval. "The chapel clock tells me it's rather late indeed, even by our own woefully lacking standards. Kiss me, then, and we might go to bed."
Tennyson dipped his head, and pressed their mouths together lightly. Hallam's was soft and warm and familiar under his own, lips parting only slightly at the touch. "And I shall see you in the vac?"
Hallam steered him away with fond tolerance, and sat up stiffly, raking his hands through his hair to rid it of any remaining blades of grass. "I insist upon it." He leaned across to kiss Tennyson's cheek before he struggled to his feet, a quick darting touch against the warm skin. "And now we simply must go to sleep. I have a lecture in the morning which, I'm sure, my life would never be the same without."
Tennyson took Hallam's proffered hand and lurched drunkenly skywards; he seemed to have lost the use of his legs. He buffed them irritably against the ground in a vain attempt to restore feeling. "Quite the perfect student, aren't you, Arthur?"
Hallam laughed again. "I am, I am; I know. It's quite sickening - but I really must leave you now. I've rather a long way to walk. What a pity that the prettiest places are always the furthest from home." He was moving even as he spoke, the words tumbling over his shoulder; he waved an arm in farewell as he crossed the lawn.
Tennyson watched him for a moment in silence, half-smiling. "Perfect," he repeated vaguely, under his breath, as Hallam reached the far side of the quad, dark silhouette ducking under the swathes of ivy that looped from the arched doorway. Perfect. And the word drifted through his mind, seeking something to connect to.
He stood listening there on the lawn for a little while, the moonlight throwing his shadow long and ghoulish on the ground behind him in the voluminous gown. He could hear the soft echo of Hallam's footsteps on the flagstones long after he had disappeared from view; he waited half-consciously for the sound to fade, wondering vaguely why his head was suddenly full of poetry, half-remembered, half-unwritten.
On the other side of the quad, some fellow was opening his window, the shutters creaking faintly. A light flickered, and went out. Tennyson stood there for a little while longer as the darkness deepened, swallowing the scent of lemon thyme.
***
A Note on Romantic Friendships: Kissing and hand-holding, etc, were very common, particularly among university men, at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was perfectly acceptable behaviour in public.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson/Arthur Hallam, anybody?
"He was as near perfection as mortal man could be." ~ Tennyson, of Hallam, of course.
"Hadn't you a lecture, Alfred?" Hallam asked, lazily. A thin wisp of blue-grey smoke spiralled languidly from his lips in the aftermath of his words, pale against the purpling sky. Tennyson turned his head to look at him, silhouetted in hazy profile against the evanescent dusk, and smiled.
"Good God, Arthur, I ought to have been ready and waiting fully an hour ago if I'd meant to attend. Virgil wrote his damned poesy some several thousand years ago now; I'm sure he won't mind terribly if I choose not to tax my poor old brain with it until tomorrow morning."
Hallam's eyes glinted, the irises flat pale disks in the moonlight. "I rather think I may be having a bad influence on you." His voice was heavy with mischief.
"The influence of which you speak has followed and completed its irrevocable course, wreaking Satanic havoc at every turn," Tennyson agreed brightly, with characteristically undue melodrama. "Besides, I'm sure I should only have fallen asleep in the theatre. I'm most dreadfully tired."
Hallam's fingers laced easily through Tennyson's, the long sleeve of his dark gown pooling over Tennyson's wrist in haphazard folds. "Well, if you are so tired, my boy, why are you out here instead of safely tucked into your bed?" he queried, in tones of mock-paternal concern.
The quad smelled damp and sharp, like sun-dried rain and wild garlic, tinged with the heady scent of the lemon thyme that gilded the grass. English summer smells. The clean, familiar smell that had drifted through the dormitory window on warm nights when the long vac was approaching, heralding in the few blissful weeks of freedom before the autumn term began. Tennyson supposed that a vac from Cambridge would be much the same as a vac from school. No essays to write, or tutors to pacify. No endless games of enforced cricket, fielding absent-mindedly in a sector of the pitch no ball could hope to near, snatches of Coleridge turning gentle cycles through his brain. No following friends down secret corridors after the Quiet Order, gowns flying out behind like wings. It didn't seem anything approaching a year since he'd first lain here on the grass with Arthur, wishing the clocks would stand still.
"I shan't see you over the vac," he said, blankly. "I suppose one can almost elongate the term by staying up hideously late."
"Why won't you see me over the vac?" Hallam asked, with sudden sharpness, half-raising himself onto his elbows. His gown flapped about his shoulders, black against the darkening sky. Tennyson was somewhat startled.
"Well, I - er. Well, we shan't be here. Where else would I see you?"
For a breath, his heart beat anxiously, dancing fluttering minuets in his wrists, and then Hallam lowered himself carefully back down into the grass, and his pulse stopped skipping. "I'm sure we can find somewhere, for God's sake, Alfred, even if it is only somebody's club," he said, sounding half-irritated. Then, with a sudden smile wreathing his words, "How should I endure so many weeks without my best friend?"
Tennyson smiled. Hallam's pipe smouldered where he held it loosely on his chest, moonlight arcing whitely about the bowl; there were speckles of white ash on his waistcoat in the round shadow of the wood. Tennyson raised a hand to brush them away, and Hallam caught his wrist with his free hand, holding it there with gentle firmness. "I couldn't, you know," he persisted, softly. "I must see you, Alfred. I must."
Tennyson flattened his palm slowly and carefully against Hallam's chest. The ribcage shifted steadily under his fingers. "Then of course you shall," he said, in a voice that rang oddly sharp in his own ears. A silence yawned lazily between them, and Tennyson hastened to fill it. "And do please put out your pipe, if you don't intend to smoke it; it is beginning to make me quite ill."
Hallam laughed. "Perhaps I mean to smoke it later?"
"Perhaps you do, but that is no concern of mine," Tennyson retorted, and with a deft flick of his wrist he twisted his hand from Hallam's grasp and knocked the captured pipe sharply against the ground, tobacco spilling into the grass. Hallam was still smiling, his face softened by more than just the half-light, and Tennyson could not but smile back.
"I hope I have not offended King Arthur?"
"Oh, I'm horribly offended. Treasonably. That pipe had been appointed to the office of Prime Minister." Hallam grinned, and his fingers curled lightly against Tennyson's cheek.
"And I am quite convinced that your pipe would be better qualified for the purpose than Lord Wellington is." Tennyson tilted his face slightly, and his smile broadened.
Hallam's fingers ghosted over the line of his cheekbone, up into the thick dark hair. "Come, now, Alfred; none of that," he admonished, with feigned disapproval. "The chapel clock tells me it's rather late indeed, even by our own woefully lacking standards. Kiss me, then, and we might go to bed."
Tennyson dipped his head, and pressed their mouths together lightly. Hallam's was soft and warm and familiar under his own, lips parting only slightly at the touch. "And I shall see you in the vac?"
Hallam steered him away with fond tolerance, and sat up stiffly, raking his hands through his hair to rid it of any remaining blades of grass. "I insist upon it." He leaned across to kiss Tennyson's cheek before he struggled to his feet, a quick darting touch against the warm skin. "And now we simply must go to sleep. I have a lecture in the morning which, I'm sure, my life would never be the same without."
Tennyson took Hallam's proffered hand and lurched drunkenly skywards; he seemed to have lost the use of his legs. He buffed them irritably against the ground in a vain attempt to restore feeling. "Quite the perfect student, aren't you, Arthur?"
Hallam laughed again. "I am, I am; I know. It's quite sickening - but I really must leave you now. I've rather a long way to walk. What a pity that the prettiest places are always the furthest from home." He was moving even as he spoke, the words tumbling over his shoulder; he waved an arm in farewell as he crossed the lawn.
Tennyson watched him for a moment in silence, half-smiling. "Perfect," he repeated vaguely, under his breath, as Hallam reached the far side of the quad, dark silhouette ducking under the swathes of ivy that looped from the arched doorway. Perfect. And the word drifted through his mind, seeking something to connect to.
He stood listening there on the lawn for a little while, the moonlight throwing his shadow long and ghoulish on the ground behind him in the voluminous gown. He could hear the soft echo of Hallam's footsteps on the flagstones long after he had disappeared from view; he waited half-consciously for the sound to fade, wondering vaguely why his head was suddenly full of poetry, half-remembered, half-unwritten.
On the other side of the quad, some fellow was opening his window, the shutters creaking faintly. A light flickered, and went out. Tennyson stood there for a little while longer as the darkness deepened, swallowing the scent of lemon thyme.
***
A Note on Romantic Friendships: Kissing and hand-holding, etc, were very common, particularly among university men, at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was perfectly acceptable behaviour in public.