Work Text:
My dear Keats,
I am devastated! I hear from Leigh Hunt that you have lately abandoned this sceptered isle to take up residence in warmer climes, in your very own fortress upon another isle entirely. Hunt tells me you suffer bouts of coughing and a need for solitude. I must admit, I do not like to think of you far from your friends and on your own, be it within castle walls or a humbler abode, let alone while you are not well.
May I call myself your friend, after so brief an acquaintance? You see, for my part, I wish, very much, to be your friend.
Pray, reassure me it is not my company you seek to avoid in exiling yourself off-shore? My ardour for your verses knows no bounds. They have become the very compass of my roaming heart!
No. No, let me be as sincere as you deserve. While your verses thrill me, it is for your own self my ardour knows no bounds. I fear when last we met at Hunt's, I failed to take my eyes off you for more than the duration of a breath and exploited each opportunity to touch you. The thought haunts me that I may have frightened you away.
Will you not reassure me, dear friend? Or, if I have been unforgivably forward, tell me how I may redeem myself in your soulful, limpid eyes.
I await your reply, breathlessly.
Your sincere admirer and friend,
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Keats frowned at the missive which had arrived at his inn that morning. Fancy Percy Shelley thinking he could afford to live in a castle, or even in the ruin of one! Fancy Shelley thinking he'd travelled all the way to the Isle of Wight for peace to work on his Endymion, only to then waste time answering unwanted correspondence.
Fancy Shelley thinking his so-called ardour, which he seemed to bestow all too freely on all too many, was any concern of his!
He crumpled up and flung the letter across the room to where a waste paper basket ought to be. However, there was none, and it fell upon the wooden boards. With a huff, he rose and picked up the ball of paper, not wishing to simply leave such nonsense lying about where some blushing chambermaid might find it. He smoothed it out gently and tucked it beneath the felt of his writing slope to forget all about it.
At this, he did not succeed.
Over the next two days, while pondering Endymion's fate, he thought of the letter at least a score of times, on each occasion angry with himself for doing so. It really was too bad. How dare Shelley disturb his peace?
The compass of his roaming heart indeed… That Shelley's heart roamed was hardly new Intelligence, but John saw no reason to let his own be disturbed by this. With renewed effort, he returned his focus to his work. Or, at least, he tried. Endymion seemed incapable of settling down to sleep.
It was the evening of the second day after the letter had been delivered. Its sender, unbeknownst to its recipient, who had not bothered to look upon the postmark, had penned it en route to Southampton, stopping only briefly on his way to the Isle of Wight by wherry boat.
Admitting to himself that Keats had chosen a picturesque exile for himself and his verses, Shelley alighted from the carriage which had conveyed him to Newport. He stood and beheld Keats' temporary abode in Castle Road.
The evening sky was resplendent in blue-grey and soft lavender hues, as any self-respecting spring evening sky ought to be. Shelley, having paid the coachman, regarded the last light of day as it sank behind the turrets of Carisbrooke Castle upon the hill above with admiration tinted by impatience. He was, after all, not here for the views.
After a brief and costly negotiation with the inn keeper for an apparently non-existent room, he slipped back outside and through the inn’s garden gate. In the distance, an owl hooted, and leaves rustled gently as Shelley gazed up at the balcony which, as a second substantial bribe had revealed to him, was the balcony of Keats' room.
His heart quickened in anticipation as he looked around to ensure the garden was quite empty. It was, save for a few shrubs and an astonishing quantity of blooming primroses swaying in the evening breeze… and a convenient apple tree nearly growing onto the balcony.
With a mischievous smile, Shelley plucked a single primrose, tucked it into his breast pocket, reached to the lowest sturdy branch, and pulled himself up until he was able to settle on the bough. From there, he continued upwards, the thrill of ascending to Keats' private world in a manner no admirer of Shakespeare could fail to appreciate, easing his way. He had not climbed a tree since he'd been a boy, but the skill had merely lain dormant, it seemed. The kindly moon aided him by lighting both his wooded path and his destination — the small platform just above.
Suddenly, a branch creaked and the tip of it broke off and fell, resulting in a rustling of leaves. Shelley took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh earth from the garden below with just a hint of sea air from a distance. How light a sleeper was Keats, he wondered? He was to find out almost at once.
The thick drapes were pulled open roughly and a nightshirt-clad, slight figure appeared in the open doorway.
'Who is there? Show yourself, whoever you are!'
Shelley smiled, not wasting the opportunity to quote the Bard when Keats himself invited him to do so. 'By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.'
At this, Keats stepped fully out into the moonlit balcony on bare feet. 'What is this nonsense?' He squinted into the darkness. 'Shelley, is that you? It sounds like you.'
Sighing, Shelley swung himself over the railing and landed lightly on his feet, smiling at Keats as he drew the primrose from his pocket and held it out to him. 'You ought to know your lines better than that, my dear.' He laughed at the dark frown this elicited. 'How I have missed your delightful scowls, Juliet.'
'What in heaven's name do you think you are about, Shelley?'
Shelley raised his brows. 'Did you not receive my letter? I fear I could not muster the patience to await your reply.'
Keats' frown deepened. 'I received your letter a mere two days ago. What makes you think I intended to reply at all?'
Clutching his heart with a wounded expression, Shelley asked softly. 'Why would you not? My dear Juliet, have I given you cause to despise me? If so, I shall fling myself off this balcony at once.'
Keats huffed, crossing his arms before his chest. 'Will you cease calling me Juliet! You, sir, would make an admirable Shakespearean fool.'
At this, Shelley smiled and bowed with a flourish. 'After such a compliment, you cannot convince me that you care nothing for me.'
Keats' mouth opened. He looked astonished. 'Why should I care for you? We are barely acquainted, sir, and forgive my bluntness, but I did not invite you to share my solitude.'
'Ah, so you are lonely? In that case—'
'I am not lonely! I am working. Quietly and peacefully,' Keats insisted warmly. 'And you disturb my peace.'
Shelley approached, pressing a hand to the wall of the balcony, just above Keats' shoulder, while Keats retreated until his back was pressed to that wall. Shelley smiled down at the hostile features undeterred, even as he tucked the primrose behind Keats' right ear. 'Then we are even, for you have certainly disturbed my peace.'
'I have done nothing of the sort!'
'Then what have you to say about the way my heart races, now that I am near you?' With that, Shelley took and pressed Keats' right hand to his breast.
Keats swallowed, but his expression did not change. 'I say that you are ill-advised to climb balconies like a boy and should keep to more sedate occupations.'
Shelley sighed dramatically. 'You may be right. I feel quite overcome.' His thumb caressed the side of the smaller hand in his grasp. 'Perhaps if I were to rest on your bed for a short spell…'
Keats tore his hand from the gentle grip and ducked out from underneath Shelley's arm. 'I suggest you find another bed to rest in. This isle is abundant with inns. Good night, Shelley.' With that, he rushed into the room and closed the balcony door behind him so rapidly, Shelley could not even get a foot into the opening in time.
With his palm on the closed door, he peered into the room towards the bed with a single candle on the nightstand. 'Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!' he called through the glass to the man fumbling with the drapes.
The cloth was drawn firmly, closing off the view, and Shelley sighed. 'Good night, John, my dear.' He looked sadly down at the primrose which had fallen with Keats' escape. 'It seems he cares nothing for you either, poor thing, and your only sin is to have been touched by my hand.' He stooped and picked up the small blossom with a smile. 'However, you have also rested in his hair.' With that, he tucked it back into his pocket.
Keats blew out his candle, then waited until he heard the creaking of the branches outside. Then he waited another minute or two, before he peered past the curtain to the garden below to be quite certain Shelley had departed by the same ludicrous route by which he had arrived.
It took him a moment to adjust his vision to the gloom outside. Ah yes, there he was, posing like a statue upon the lawn. The moon cast an inappropriate halo about the tall, slender form. It glinted in the dark curls and showed off Shelley's white teeth as he smiled up at him.
Keats retreated, frowning, back into the room, letting the curtain fall closed.
The audacity of the man! As though he had any wish to be added to his list of conquests.
He passed a, mostly, sleepless night, at least until the early hours before dawn when tiredness finally claimed him.
The inevitable consequence of this was that, in the morning, he overslept and was too embarrassed to go downstairs for his breakfast so late. As it was, a tray was brought up to him around ten o'clock.
'Are you unwell, sir?' asked the maidservant who bore it around the half-ajar door. 'You look ever so pale.'
Keats, who had leapt out of bed at the first knock, tightened the cord of his dressing gown, then took the tray from the girl's hands. 'My sleep was disturbed, that is all.'
'Sorry to hear that, sir,' the maid told him. 'There's a nice strong cup of tea on that tray, that'll set you right in no time, I reckon.'
'I expect it will.' Keats had no such expectation, but he managed a smile, thanked the girl, sent her off, and then settled back against the headboard of the sturdy wooden bed and contemplated the tray on his lap.
He barely nibbled at the eatables, but he managed the entire cup of tea.
Where had Shelley gone off to for the night, he wondered. Most likely, the incorrigible man had found himself a room at another inn nearby; his own was, thankfully, fully occupied, Keats remembered being told. If Shelley was nearby, he would, like as not, turn up again to make a nuisance of himself.
Keats wondered whether he ought not to endure the added expense and return to Shanklin instead, not leaving a forwarding address; he would have stern words with Hunt upon his return to Hampstead about giving out details of his holiday accommodations to all and sundry.
No, he would not be shifted to another inn by Shelley. He had work to do and could ill afford the time and upheaval of changing abodes. Furthermore, he rather liked his view of the castle. Besides, it would look too much like escape. Let Shelley pine from a distance.
Keats scoffed, nearly choking on a corner of his buttered muffin.
Shelley, if indeed he was pining, would be over his rejection by lunchtime, and by supper time would likely be chasing after a more willing local. Some poor innocent dairy maid, or shepherd boy, all too easily impressed. It really was too bad. The corners of Keats' mouth turned down.
Lunchtime came and saw Keats, in search of what sunlight hours could be had in April, ascending the hill towards the castle with his journal, ink and quills in a satchel.
Shelley came too, catching up with him after lying in wait, in a manner of speaking, in an opportune spot within the inn.
Keats jumped when Shelley leaned in and spoke close to his ear. 'Did you sleep well, my dear?'
'No, I did not, and I am not one of your dears.'
'No? Ah, then you were kept awake by regret that you sent me away so brusquely. I slept badly also.'
Keats stopped and stared at his uninvited companion. 'I was kept awake by my work,' he claimed.
'Then, if Endymion troubles you, I shall help you by letting you know how Selene felt at the sight of his beauty and pined away as he slept. I shall be Selene.' He scratched his brow thoughtfully. 'Or perhaps Hypnos. Yes, that would suit me better, as per Licymnius of Chios.' He walked alongside Keats backwards for some steps, gazing into his eyes. 'And Hypnos, rejoicing in the rays of his eyes, would lull the boy to rest with eyes wide open,' he quoted.
'Mere hours ago, you were Romeo. How changeable you are,' Keats grumbled. 'You may be what you like, Mr Shelley, as long as you depart and be it elsewhere.'
Shelley laughed. 'You are charming, Endymion, but you wound me. Why are you so cross with me, when I seek only to be your muse and inspiration, not to mention your worshipper?'
Keats huffed and began to walk again, but the hill was so steep that Shelley kept pace with him easily, especially as Keats was using most of his breath to chide him.
'You force your company upon me, just as you forced your advice upon me at Hunt's place. Then, you told me my early works were not worthy of publication. You insulted me, sir, and now here you are, claiming to pine for me!' Keats began to cough, having made himself hoarse.
Shelley took Keats by his elbow, gently but firmly, and stepped into his path. He gazed at him with genuine concern and perturbation. 'Are you well?' When Keats merely nodded curtly, he went on, 'I told you nothing of the sort, my dear. I advised you not to publish your earlier work before publishing your more recent, more polished works, which are so impressive that afterwards, everything you have ever written will be awaited eagerly by the public. All your verses are charming, Keats, but your recent ones are quite outstanding.'
Keats blinked. 'That is what you meant?' he asked softly.
Shelley nodded. 'Of course. You mistook my meaning entirely, and I regret not having made myself clearer.'
'I see.' Keats walked on again, slowly, past Shelley. He was breathing a little hard from scaling the incline and from his coughing, and he looked down at the ground as he walked.
Shelley, noting the signs of exhaustion, suggested, 'There is no one else about, why do we not rest in the shade of this rather majestic tree?' He indicated a sturdy oak spreading its shade over a soft carpet of moss and wild primroses.
'Very well.'
Keats must be quite, quite tired, Shelley thought, or he would have rallied against the suggestion that he might need rest as vehemently as he refused most suggestions. He waited until Keats had chosen his spot and had sunk with his back against the mossy slope before joining him. As he did so, he looked about over the rolling grounds of Carisbrooke Castle, sparing a glance for the ancient, overgrown keep holding vigil over a tapestry of green. The air was scented with fresh earth and the faint perfume of blooming spring flowers. This was a resting place worthy of a fairy tale.
'You need not have chased after me all the way here to clarify that, Shelley,' Keats said quietly. 'In fact, you might have merely done so in a letter. In a sensible letter without foolish embellishments.'
Shelley rested on one hip and, facing Keats, smiled at him. 'I chased after you for an altogether different reason, as you well know, and I embellished nothing in my letter.'
'Naturally,' Keats murmured, adding, a little archly, 'How fares Mary?'
'Very well,' Shelley replied, 'and she asks me to pass on her best wishes to you.'
Keats looked into his eyes, frowning. 'You told her that you intended to travel all the way to the Isle of Wight because you are pining for me?'
Shelley laughed. 'She knew very well of my pining, and she suggested this journey. Her exact words were, Go to him, Percy, for heaven's sake, before all you will be capable of composing will be lovelorn elegies.'
Staring at him, Keats was the very picture of confusion. 'You amaze me, both of you,' he said softly.
'Oh, my dear, it is you who amazes me.' Shelley reached to brush an errant curl from Keats' brow, then smoothed out the frown with the edge of his thumb.
Keats held perfectly still for a moment, then chided half-heartedly, 'Stop it, Shelley. Anyone might walk by on a sunny day like this.'
Shelley looked about. 'There is no one within sight, but very well, I shall try to restrain myself.' He fell back against the steep bank from which their sheltering oak grew and lay beside Keats, arms stretched over his head and hands tucked beneath the nape of his neck. He smiled when Keats looked at him furtively even as he unpacked his writing supplies and strew them about himself haphazardly. Shelley knew he was well-favoured, and Keats would hate to know that he was well aware of how the hazel eyes had lingered upon him many a time. If he put himself on display for Keats now, when they were far from what passes for civilisation about London, what harm was there in that?
'I thought you were Hypnos,' Keats muttered, opening his notebook on his knees. 'You seem to me more like Endymion, about to doze off.'
'I will be whatever or whoever you wish me to be. I want, above all else, to please you,' Shelley replied softly. There was no hint of teasing in his voice now, for he wanted Keats to know he was sincere.
Keats looked down at him but did not reply. Then he quickly looked away again and down at his open notebook.
Keats read the opening lines he had already written during his stay.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
He took up his quill to continue. The spring sun cast its dappled spots of light upon them both through the fresh green foliage of their tree. The moss, interspersed with countless primroses which grew rampant on the island, lay soft as bedding beneath them… and Shelley was breathing quietly at his side. Keats' words flowed from him with ease. Or perhaps through him, for he felt like a vessel pouring them forth, giving no thought to form or possible reception of the finished work. He knew only that he had to give it existence.
And yet, it was as he had told Reynolds in his letter from a few days before — he could not exist without poetry.
He kept on writing, to a backdrop of few, precious sounds: the breeze through the tree top which also rustled the ivy leaves winding around the trunk, the song of birds joyfully anticipating the coming of summer, the scratching of his quill on paper and, throughout it all, Shelley's quiet breathing as soft and musical as an Aeolian harp.
Once, he glanced at his companion and found him dozing. He smiled at how boyish and innocent this insatiable hedonist looked in slumber. It was hard to recall why he had been so gruff with him. Perhaps this was how Shelley wormed his way into one's heart — by slumbering beside one? But then he recalled that he had offered to help him write Endymion and, by heaven, he was doing exactly that!
And hour or two passed like this, beneath the shady oak, and by the end of that time, not only had Endymion grown in leaps and bounds, but Keats felt healthier and more contented than he had in a long time. Still, his legs and derrière had gone numb from sitting still for so long, and he craved to stretch his limbs and return to the inn for a cup of tea.
There was no one about, he noted, though it had to be said that they had chosen a quiet spot, a little out of the direct path up to the picturesque castle ruins.
He looked at Shelley again, and then, because a little devil told him he might, as he was entirely unobserved, leaned over him and gazed more closely at his face. It was a fine face, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, a full mouth and a straight nose. Shelley's skin was as smooth as alabaster, but had a healthy bronzed tone from the sun. Long dark lashes rested against the tops of his cheeks. The dark, thick curls framed Shelley's face perfectly, tugged gently to and fro by the soft winds.
Suddenly, a long-fingered hand came up rapidly and closed around Keats' wrist. It encircled it entirely in a firm grip which loosened at once when Shelley opened his eyes and took in who had woken him.
Keats' breath caught in his throat. He had tried hard not to notice the rare deep blue of Shelley's eyes in the past, but as near to him as this, with the leaf-filtered sunlight making sparkles in them like splashes on a deep pond, he could not help but lose himself in them.
Shelley did not speak, he simply looked up into his eyes. He did not smile either, and there was no mockery in his face, though he must know that Keats had been staring at him in an unforgivable way.
For several heartbeats, their eyes held, while Shelley measured his pulse with his encircling fingers.
Keats parted his lips, to say he knew not what, except that the silence grew more damning by the moment, when Shelley, quick as lightning, flipped him on his back and mounted him, pressing the hand at his mercy into the grass. Keats' gasp of surprise was stifled by Shelley's mouth on his.
How long the kiss lasted, Keats did not know, but had he any mind at all at his disposal, he might have composed a series of sonnets to be written down later — to Shelley's lips, breath, and tongue, with a few more to the way Shelley's fingers fondled his hair and his whole body pressed against his, a long leg insinuating itself between both of his. Shelley rocked, then, gently against him, and Keats had never felt the like. It was a good thing his groan went the way of his gasp earlier, or they might have—
With an effort, Keats turned his head to separate their mouths, and even as he still felt the loss himself, his voice, sounding foreign to his ears with its huskiness, cautioned Shelley that they were out in the open, where anyone might pass by.
Shelley released him at once and sat up, looking around.
Keats sat up more slowly, dazed and with his heart beating like a thousand little drummer boys.
'All is well,' Shelley told him. 'There is no one else here.' He turned his face and smiled at him sweetly.
Keats could not help but return the smile, then his eyes fell on those plush lips which had stolen his breath only moments before and his face, undoubtedly flushed already, heated even more.
'You know not, John, how tempted I am to lay siege to you the way no one has ever laid siege to this castle.'
Shelley's words might have elicited a rebuttal only hours before, but Keats knew now that, should Shelley choose to do so, he would be helpless against him, his own body a traitor to himself.
Shelley paced his room to which he had retreated after walking Keats back to the inn. He, still, had not revealed that he was in the room immediately beside his, and to know how close he was to Keats gave him a secret thrill he was not yet willing to relinquish.
He had been tempted, very tempted, earlier by the castle. When he was woken by Keats' rapid breaths upon his face, and found him leaning over him with an expression of genuine desire, a rather intoxicating idea had blossomed in his mind. It would be a delight to make it reality if Keats was unaware how close to himself he was housed.
The disappointment when he had parted from Keats at the door of his room with a smile and a brief caress of his cheek with his knuckles, had almost changed his mind. But he had held firm, and now it was almost time.
Night had fallen a short time ago, and the moon was out. Shelley knew it was casting the garden into its silvery glow from the previous night, which was just as well for his purpose.
He quietly and swiftly made his way outside, through that garden gate, and once again up the oak tree and onto Keats' balcony. This time, he took great care not to make any unnecessary sound.
As luck would have it, the balcony door was ajar to let in air, and he pushed it open fully to slip inside.
Keats, light auburn locks spread out upon his pillow, lay sprawled in the centre of his bed, his nightshirt wide open at the neck and ridden up to reveal his pale, lean legs.
Shelley licked his lips as he approached, hoping desperately that Keats would not alert the household about an intruder before discovering his identity.
Softly, as lightly as he could, he settled on the edge of the bed and contemplated the sensual picture before him. No candle was lit, but there was just enough moonlight to make out every enticing detail of Keats' face and form, the sharpness of his features and the softness of his hair, the silken pallor of his limbs and the vulnerability of his throat and hairless chest half laid bare. One hand rested on the abdomen, above the nightshirt, and the other was flung out to the side, fingers curled into the sheets.
Shelley smiled at the way the small figure took up practically the entire width of the bed. 'I meant to crawl in beside you,' he confessed to the sleeping man in a mere whisper, 'but I fear you have left me insufficient space.' With that, he reached out and gently smoothed his right hand over the crisp linen of Keats' nightshirt above his sternum, feeling the warmth of him through it. He stroked across the covered area of his chest and felt his heartbeat as, despite being in sleep, it sped up at his touch.
'I wonder, could I make you dream of me?' Shelley murmured. He shifted a little closer, his fingers trailing along the neck of the nightshirt and then onto bare skin. His fingertips grazed over sharp collarbones and up across the shallow at the base of Keats' neck. The pulse, there, raced also. 'Heaven knows I dream of you often enough.'
His fingers roamed freely, up the side of the long neck which seemed to arch at his touch, and behind Keats' right ear where, spread, they moved up through the silken hair he had admired many a time. He sighed at the sensation and leaned down to press a kiss to Keats' hair, then to his temple. Having begun, he kissed the left cheek, looking sunken in sleep beneath the sharp cheekbone. But the skin was soft, almost as soft as Shelley remembered those sulking lips to taste.
He held himself inches above Keats, then gave into the temptation and kissed them again. They did not respond in sleep, of course, but a soft whimper from the sleeper indicated that the sensation was felt, nonetheless.
Shelley kissed the slack mouth with brief, soft touches, then moved a finger along the flushed flesh. He tilted his head and kissed the arched neck, but with a flick of his tongue, had a taste of the skin there too.
Keats shifted in his sleep, the softest of moans felt in Shelley's fingertip where it rested over the parted lips.
Shelley paused, breathing rapidly, and wondered how much further he dare go without waking the sleeper. He was certain Keats would be amenable to his caresses, and a mischievous part of him wanted to find out how far he could go without waking him. He let his eyes roam down the prone body, smiling in satisfaction when he noted the distinct tenting of the nightshirt between Keats' thighs.
Unable to resist, he smoothed his right hand down over linen-clad hips, past the protrusion holding his attention. He pressed the fabric to the warm skin as he stroked and caressed, over sharp hipbones and the top of a thigh, then down a little way to the inside of it, stretching the linen over the bulge.
A sleepy groan accompanied a further rise, and Shelley paused his strokes to take a calming breath. Then, lightly, he brushed his palm across the distended fabric, nearly groaning out loud when this left his skin a little damp and a notable spot in the linen.
'Wake up, John, I beg you, or I may ravish you in your sleep,' he murmured urgently, undecided whether he wished to be heard or not.
In any case, he was heard, or the stimulation became too much to keep Keats asleep.
Slowly, the large hazel eyes opened and stared at him in mingled astonishment and confusion. 'Percy?'
Shelley smiled. 'Yes.'
'How did you…' Keats rose on his elbows, blushing when he woke up fully and became aware of his aroused state.
'The balcony,' Shelley answered the unfinished question. 'Not that it matters. I have the room next to yours.'
Keats stared. 'There were no empty rooms.'
'A little extra payment can help many a landlord find another room.'
'Ah.' Keats swallowed. It seemed he only then took in that Shelley's hand was on his upper thigh. 'Are you responsible for the state of me?'
'I hope so, by Jove!' Shelley said with feeling.
Keats laughed softly, and Shelley joined in, for he had never heard him laugh before, and the sound brought him nothing but joy.
Keats felt the heat of the hand on his thigh as though it were a branding iron. He felt claimed by it. By Shelley. Who had let himself into his room and touched him without waking him first, and he should be angry or at least irritated, but he found himself wishing he had woken up a little later. He was madly curious what liberties Shelley might have taken with his body, given more time.
Holding the deep blue eyes he, very deliberately, parted his thighs a little more, and the hand on the right one slid into the warm space.
Shelley's eyes widened in pleased surprise. His smile widened too as he grasped a handful of linen and slowly pushed it up to bare Keats' legs entirely. He pushed it further to reveal his bare hips and groin.
Keats refused to feel shame for his arousal, considering Shelley himself was responsible for it. He watched, holding his breath, as Shelley's eyes took him in with a look that was oddly tender, then leaned down to guide him into his open mouth, those eyes once again rising to meet his.
'Percy…'
For the entire time Shelley pleasured him, he held his eyes, and Keats did not flinch or blink. When tears filled his eyes by the time his climax came over him, he could not have said whether it was from focussing so intently or from the intensity of pleasure Shelley wrought from him.
He knew only that he begged in the aftermath for Shelley to join him in his bed; that he watched the long, lean limbs revealed as Shelley stripped rapidly; that when Shelley drew him into his arms and showered him with hungry kisses and patient caresses, his cock lay hard and heavy between them. And by the time it gently drooled in pearls onto his skin, he begged Shelley again, this time to take him.
Keats woke, half fearing that having had his fill of him, Shelley might have departed like a thief in the night for new pastures. But he knew at once that he was wrong, for Shelley lay awake with his arms around him, gazing at him with an indescribably tender expression as he drew circles on his bare chest with his fingertips.
'Good morning, my Adonais.'
Keats gave a soft, startled laugh. 'Is it my turn to play a role for you?'
Shelley shook his head, his disarrayed curls awry, still, from where Keats' fingers had clutched them during their coupling. 'I do not wish you to play, I wish you to be… my Adonais, now and always.'
Keats was startled by the seriousness of Shelley's voice and expression. 'Why?'
Shelley looked almost sad at that. 'Because, as though you were a clear, eternal spring, now I have drunk from you, I shall be thirsty for the rest of my life. So I must give you a name that is divine, unique, and holds all that I feel for you.'
Keats swallowed hard. 'Then I will be your Adonais, Percy. Always.'