pretty melodies on the unmade bed - a Will Shakespeare birthday fic [or read on AO3]
they are tangled together, spilled one atop the other, as different and inseparable as ink drying on parchment.
the bells of St Saviour's ring for St George and Will feels undone and unfinished, much like the stack of half done plays scattered beside the bed. he had meant to revise, to write, yesterday, but then Kit had come home, earlier than expected, and no writing had been done. no writing can ever compare to Kit's thin smile, amused and just a little teasing. Will doesn't mind being teased by Kit. he only allows him this privilege. Will's honour is otherwise prickly, but with Kit he knows he can give as good as he gets, and still make up to him without ending in a duel. fistcuffs at the most, and he's always taken care not to touch Kit's pretty face. Kit returns the favour, teases him about competing with Dick for the handsome hero roles.
Kit kisses his naked shoulder and makes a sound like "good morning". he doesn't wake up easy, not if he's not hurried by external factors. Will has no mind to hurry him. he likes this Kit, soft and affectionate and warm. too sleepy for wit, not alert, just existing quietly.
not that Will is very good at quiet, either. he gets restless soon, but Kit's kissing turns into biting, soothing him.
Kit's been absent too long, leaving Will feeling dried up, sluggish and muddy like the Avon in summer. man delights him not, nor woman either. at least, absent Kit, he writes. he writes so much he's late to the theatre more days than not, running the maze of filthy alleys between his house and the Rose still shrugging his doublet on, sleeves untied, repeating his parts in breathless whispers, trying to sort what he needs to perform from what he needs to write. threads mix sometimes, he copies a line here, improvises a line there. usually for the best. he's good at improving on rhythm.
he turns around, dislodging Kit and sending him sprawling, pale gold hair fanning out on the bedsheet in a tangled mess. Will is still surprised by bursts of sudden fondness, sometimes - he is surprised now, breath catching, that he gets to have this moment. Kit's eyes open a slither, lazy and still unfocused.
Will smiles down at him. he wants to thank him for coming home early, for coming home to him, but he knows better. sentiment is best left to their characters - they do better with action. so he leans down and bites the pale neck, whose line he's spent more time admiring than he's spent praying, lately. he feels no guilt about it, just as he feels no guilt about playing on Sundays. why close the theatre when people are at leisure? why not kiss Kit, when he is right there? he makes the most beautiful sounds, little breaths that no poetry will ever catch. and Will is selfishly glad of it. he wants to keep those to himself. Kit is not his, nor is he Kit's, not wholly, but they are joined in all the ways that matter. he tangles a hand with Kit's, rises up on one elbow to look down at him, gets a leg between Kit's.
it's a good start to a good day.
