My Fic: Mightier Than the Sword

[summeryewberry]

Also found at https://archiveofourown.org/works/30871364

Mightier Than the Sword
by Summer Yewberry

Fandom: Will (TV 2017)
Pairing: Christopher Marlowe/William Shakespeare
Rating: Mature
Keywords: Drama, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Early Modern English, Stalking, Bickering, Ghosts, Vague Sex, Religious Discussion, Canon-Typical Attitudes to Sexuality, Rivals With Benefits, Complicated Relationships, Original Ensemble Characters
Length: 10,001 words
Status: Complete

Summary: Someone has been following Will, as he attempts to return to his life at The Theatre without Alice. At least Kit is still around to help, and to challenge him, and maybe something more.

A sort of coming out story told in Early Modern/Shakespearian English.



Still flying on the laughter of his friends, and another successful performance, Will didn't notice anyone was following him until a familiar arm draped over his shoulders.

"Walk with me," said Kit. "You have a new pursuer."

Will reacted first with confusion. "Who?"

Kit's eyes gleamed dark, and a thrill of danger quickened Will's heart, a feeling not foreign when he was around Kit Marlowe.

The streets had emptied at this time of night, and his own footsteps were all that Will could hear, even when he strained his ears. When he attempted to turn his head, Kit's arm tightened painfully around the crook of his neck, holding him still.

"Come with me," Kit said. It was not a request.

Anger licked up Will's belly, the fire of affront burning out all his previous joy. "You cannot just follow me and-"

"Do you want to live or not?" Kit hissed into his ear.

His tone held enough alarm that a chill of true fear distracted Will, and Kit could guide him away from the path to his lodgings. These streets became more labyrinthine the further they walked. Alleys, nooks, and archways spawned shadows, with shapes like wild animals looming in for the hunt. Somewhere, a dog barked.

When they turned a corner, darkness swallowed them. Will found himself spun around, and then there was solid wood at his back, and another body at his front, holding him up. Kit's buttons tangled with his own, close enough that Will could feel Kit's rabbit-quick heartbeat match his own.

A queer feeling in his belly made Will tense, ready to throw Kit into the street so that he might breathe again.

"Kit-"

"Hush!"

A slender finger pressed to his lips, and stilled Will's protests with more shock than obeisance.

In that moment, a shadow moved over Kit's shoulder, a fragment of darkness, blacker than the street beyond. The whisper of a footfall and a hush of breath that could have been anyone in London.

Then it was gone.

Kit's eyes bored into Will's. "Whose enemy have you made yourself now?" he breathed.

"I know not of any man I may have offended since Topcliffe." When he whispered Will's lips brushed Kit's finger, which he had yet to remove, and Will's stomach twisted.

Kit remained where he was a moment more, his face close enough that Will could see the lighter outline of his hair in the darkness. His breath was soft and smelled of tobacco.

"Very well. Then I wish you sweet dreams, Will Shakespeare." Kit stepped back all at once, and vanished into the shadows. It was like he had never been there, with not even his footsteps stirring the stillness of the night.

Only Will's chest felt the sudden coolness as he was left alone once more with a pounding heartbeat.

He did not know which manner of man of been following him, but once again, Christopher Marlowe had saved his life. He did not know if that knowledge was a comfort to him or not.


-


"Right then, to be a great actor, you must reach everyone in the audience," George was explaining. "Those folks in the gallery want a good show too, so the pretence needs to be more real than life."

"I don't understand," Presto said. He looked better nowadays, with fuller cheeks since he had started eating enough. Sometimes Will missed having Presto around in his room, but he was a child of the whole theatre now. Everyone accepted Presto, and truthfully, Will could not blame a young boy for wanting his own room. Now that Presto was living with George and his wife, he was growing into a young man like any other, like one with any family of his own. The only remainders of his days on the street were his temper and his language.

"Pretend you're crying," George explained. "The people furthest away might not see your face, so use your voice. Put the crying in your voice."

Will watched as Presto tried to make his voice pick up the sounds. "Please, sir, I'm lost." From the back, Will couldn't see his face, but he sounded rather convincing.

"Good, now try to make your breath tremble, but like you're trying to hide it."

People brushed past with pieces of the set, and Will had to side-step a rolled painting. Heminges hobbled by, wearing only one shoe. On the other side of the space, as far from Will as he could get, Richard was rehearsing his lines.

And moaning all the way, Simon thumped his way down the stairs. "Has no one seen my stage-clothes? How is an actor supposed to go on stage without the correct clothes? Shall I wear nothing?"

"Only if you desire to clear the theatre," Will could not help but quip, "and then we would have no audience."

Simon gave him a rude gesture in reply. "Easy for you to say; you are all dressed."

Will held up his hands in surrender. "Soft, Simon. I believe Richard had some pieces moved earlier."

Simon grumbled and strode past, towards the back, where Richard was pacing.

"Thou must be married to no man but me, for I am born to tame you... Not you, Simon, you possess not the globes I prefer."

"My clothes, Richard! Where are they?"

Will turned from the activity to find his papers, where ideas for four other plays adorned the edges, frayed and adrift without stories to anchor them. Ideas had not deserted him when Alice left, only his ability to craft them with Alice's clear mind. His pen moved slower upon the page these days.

"Not all globes belong to the feminine kind," the new voice spoke precisely.

The space burst into bawdy laughter, and Will turned to see Kit strut in through the curtains.

"Aye," Simon said, "and not all sodomites fly like Icarus, Master Marlowe."

Once again, Will's tongue answered before he had even thought about it. "Yet with Mercury's sandals one could fly as high as one might without harm."

"And how would you go about getting Mercury's sandals?" Simon asked.

"I only mean, not all wings are the same."

Simon turned away from him with a grumble that sounded like, "Writers."

"You are in a quarrelsome mood today," Kit said, wandering over.

"Writing is not coming to me as easily as it did a few weeks ago," Will admitted with a sigh. "I feel half-dead when I cannot write, and it frustrates me."

Kit made a scoffing noise. "Whatever shall we do? Willy Shakeshaft finds it difficult to write. Have you tried burying yourself alive yet? I found it rather disappointing myself, but God knows what demons you would see."

Not in the mood for Kit's mockery, Will turned away from him. "Why are you even here?"

A hand grabbed his arm, hard enough to bruise. "Does the name John Rogers mean anything to you?"

Will jerked his arm free. "I met a wainwright with that name once."

Kit stepped closer, almost as close as they had been the day before. "The man who followed you is a writer and an actor at the Curtain Theatre." His eyes were fierce, burning with an inner fire, and Will tried to put aside his rising apprehension. Something hung between them, something Will had no words for, an unspoken thing that had always lain between them.

"I know him not. Are you certain he was following me?"

"Very certain. He wrote a play by the name of The Unfortunate History of Sir Gregory and the Well of Cursed Fortune."

"I have not heard of it, nor have I been to the Curtain Theatre," Will protested. "Mayhaps the actors here mingle with those that work there, but I have not met any man named John Rogers since I arrived in London."

Their gaze was broken when Kit glanced through the curtains to the stage beyond.

"I asked you once what you desired," he said, quieter. "A better question might be, what holds you back?"

Will lost the thread of their conversation. "What?"

"We all seek something. What quickens a man's heart? What makes him feel alive?" Kit's voice purring about desire in his ear, raised all the same queer feelings again.

Averse to being discomfited, Will bent closer. "Are we still speaking about my pursuer or not?"

Kit's mouth curved in humour that did not reach his eyes. "Then let me ask this: what didst thou find in Alice, and now that she is gone, what hast thou lost apart from a bed-warmer?"

His heart clenched, and rarely had Will possessed such a desire to strike a man. "Keep her name out of your mouth!"

"Ah!" with a pleased voice, Kit remarked, "a wound. Good. Then your writing should flow like ink."

Will wanted to curse Kit, but before he could, Kit stepped back.

"Fear not. I know how to gain what I seek; I will not see you harmed," Kit paused a moment as a wicked smile curved up his mouth, "though thou may yet die with me."

He cast one last assessing glance over Will, before he strode from the theatre again, and Will was left wondering at the feeling that remained behind.

It was not disappointment. But it was not relief either.


-


Nights at the ale house were beginning to feel normal without Alice and her gentleman's garb. Richard still kept himself apart from Will, and maybe that would never change, maybe Will had lost his friend forever, but Kemp and Heminges and all the other players kept the mood. Tonight, there were also actors from The Rose who were friends with some of the company.

The only thing that could ruin their spirits was the presence of one Robert Greene at another table. Fortunately, he was engaged with his own companions, and was ignoring Will and his friends entirely.

"Is it true that Ned Alleyn is due to be married?" Heminges asked one of the Rose's actors.

"No, not yet, though I hear Joan Woodward is interested," the man replied.

"And I thought he was like Francis Bacon, oriented towards the masculine love," mused Heminges.

"I'm sure one does not preclude the other when he enters holy matrimony," the other man emphasised the word "holy" just enough to evoke lewd laughter. Will did not know the names of these actors, but they were clearly familiar to his friends.

"The Molly-houses would mourn his loss otherwise," someone new exclaimed.

"Why would he need to visit a Molly-house when he has Marlowe writing his parts?" another man asked.

"Writing? Is that what he does with his pen?" Laughter lit that side of the table.

"Hush! Speak of the devil and he doth appear!" Someone indicated the back corner of the ale-house.

When Will stretched his neck, he spied a familiar head among all the cacophony and movement.

He took a moment to think and to finish his cup, letting the noise of his companions move on to other topics, before he said, "Excuse me."

Only Richard watched him leave.

In a corner, Kit sat without even a ghost of the young men that encircled him many of these nights. For once, he made for a lone figure among the people.

"You are following me," Will declared, sitting down without waiting for an invitation. It was all that he could conclude from a solitary Kit Marlowe.

"Surely I have better things to do," Kit drawled. "Parties to attend, people to kill, a young genius to seduce?"

"Ah, you are melancholy." That was the other explanation.

Kit made a noise that was part cynical, part amusement. "You believe you know me?"

"I believe you are just as human as any other man."

"That is something of which I have not been accused recently," Kit's smirk disappeared behind his cup.

"Are you talking about the Puritans?" Their protests against Doctor Faustus were known to all players and patrons of the theatre business. "What have they been calling you today?"

"So many names, where to start?" Kit put his cup on the table. "Demonic is my favourite, as though I have forced Ned to stand upon the stage and summon real demons into the world. If these Puritans wish me to begone they are doing precisely the opposite: the theatre remains crowded."

It was one of the things that made Marlowe so notorious: his ability to awe others, to challenge and demand more from the world. It was one of the reasons Will had admired him before ever meeting him, and why he still did. He had seen Kit when he emerged from hell with this play as his guerdon, and did not think he could endure his own darkest thoughts to find a play that was nearly as admirable.

"What I desire," said Will slowly, "is to one day make an impression as important as the one you are making, and what holds me back are the depths of my own dark side."

He knew he had hurt people through thoughtlessness and selfishness: Alice and her family, Anne, and others. He had not always acted with a noble heart, and his burdens were guilt and regret.

"I fear I am too much a coward to look too deep into my own shadow."

Kit huffed in contempt. "Stop thy martyrdom, thy sins are nothing against the blackness of my soul."

"I disagree," Will told him.

Kit sent him a disparaging look, but before he could speak, Will continued.

"If thou art right, then thou art a stronger man than I to survive such a journey into darkness. However, only a man without regret, a man beyond redemption, could be unaware of the state of his own soul. I know this because I spent weeks writing Topcliffe. There is a man who thought himself righteous, even in the depths of pravity. Thou art not beyond redemption, my friend." He did not know how much Kit regretted the deaths in which he had played a part, but he did know what Kit had done to help Alice, and that weighed more on the side of the angels.

Kit stared at him for a moment without saying anything. The ale-house was loud around them.

At last, Kit cast a glance over Greene's table, finished his drink, and stood. "Walk with me."

Will had already stood when it occurred to him how it would look when they left together, before dismissing the notion. It would not be the first time, after all. They were two playwrights, and acquaintances, and people would talk regardless of what they did.

It was colder outside, away from the fire.

Kit walked slowly towards where they both knew Will lived, and Kit did not.

"The world of theatre is one for madmen and poets," he said.

Not very long ago, Will had walked like this with Alice. It might as well have been a lifetime ago.
"Of all the playwrights," Kit continued, "your pen is the only one that nears mine. Greater than Peele and Wilson, and far better than that poltroon Greene."

I saw greatness, Kit had told him. You are special.

"And of the two of us, you Will, scribe to light the world, like Apollo to a library. And I, being the worser soul, bear witness to the absence of light: the void, chaos, anarchy." He spoke with relish, as though these thoughts pleased him very much.

The wind blew cold along the street, a sign creaked where it swayed, and a shutter banged further away. High above, the stars were scattered like jewels between the clouds, and the waxing moon shone bright. Down here, on the street, Will could see candle-light from a few windows where the sleepless dwelt, but all else lay still. Only the shadow of a cat flitted along a wall, and Kit's eyes moved with it, ever watchful.

"Is that what you were thinking about tonight?" Will asked, because he did not know how else to take what Kit was telling him.

"No." Kit stopped to face him, one hand resting on Will's chest.

Immediately, Will's heart quickened and his blood warmed. It was a pull between them, as if they were bound by the same thread. They were connected by a thrall, a curiosity, a desire. Will wanted at once to step closer, and to run far away. He did not fear Kit, he recognised, but himself.

Kit's eyes were dark when he spoke again. "Envy is a sin that poisons heart and mind, and you must know I crave your wholesomeness, for I have none of my own. But also I respect you because you rival me and fight me."

"You challenge me and infuriate me," Will replied. He found it hard to breathe under that gaze. Fear, he thought. And wanting.

"Then we have an understanding," Kit said.

"Yes." Will had only once felt as understood as he did in that moment. And Alice was gone.

Heart pounding, he reached up to touch Kit's face, not unlike Kit had done to him some few months ago. He heard Kit's breath hitch, and felt him still with surprise.

This time, neither of them pulled away.

Kit smiled and tilted his face into Will's palm. His jaw was warm and lightly stubbled.

"I do not dislike thee," Will confessed, "not when thou art honest and not starting fights."

"I know not how to be anything else," Kit smiled like a cat. "Janus, I am."

"No. I placed my trust in thee, and thou hast not betrayed me yet."

"No, I have not." His breath brushed Will's thumb, a whisper of warmth in the night.

"No kiss this time?" Will asked.

Kit reached up, as though to repeat his gesture from weeks ago.

Will held his breath and heard his own heart thump in his ears. He held still as Kit's fingers instead touched his mouth, those fingertips warm and gentle on Will's lips, a touch so light it was almost a kiss itself. For a moment Will thought his heart would leap out of his chest it was beating so hard.

"No." Kit spoke quietly as he took a firm step back. "I defy thee to kiss me first."

They were separated again, but Will saw the pleased smile before Kit turned away to begin walking again. It made his heart beat like a verse without words.

A moment later, Will followed him.


-


"So, your wife and mistress abandon you, and you become a sodomite."

The voice threw Will from his sleep with a violent shudder.

The night was dark still, and in the shadows his uncle sat, as Will had seen him so many times before.

"Have you even confessed for your last interval of adultery? No, that's right. You cannot, because you betrayed your cousin and forced him to flee."

"I did not betray him!" An ill foreboding stirred in Will's stomach.

"Your own cousin. Your family."

"No!"

"But you are glad he is gone."

Will stilled. He could not protest that. "I wish he and Alice had never met. I never wanted him near her, and he put her in danger."

"So you betrayed him to a spy."

"Kit did not sell his location to the Queen's Men," Will replied with force, before he could remember that other sleepers filled the house. Even with Presto no longer staying with him, he was aware of his night-time awakenings, and the walls were open enough that voices carried in this place.

"You could not know that, boy! You traded your cousin and your priest for an arseswiving miscreant who would just as soon sell his own mother for a profit."

"He wouldn't," Will quietened his voice. He did not want someone coming to his room to see him speaking to a ghost.

"He is not a good person," his uncle replied.

"I know, but he's not a bad person either. He is..."

"Your damnation."

"... complicated," Will finished.

Outside, an owl called. The night was yet far from over. Will could see scarce particulars of his room, but his uncle's face was clear as the day he died.

"And the woman you claimed to love? Is this what your love means?"

"I'm sorry," Will said, as though Alice could hear him, as though anyone but a ghost could hear him. "I did not want anyone to be hurt."

"Your heart is heavy with regret," his uncle began again, "but God teaches us that in Him we can always find forgiveness. That man who tempts you will not help you find anything but misery."

Will breathed, alone in his room again. Anne was home in Stratford. Alice was gone to places unknown. And Will was here, thinking about a man he could not help but feel drawn towards.

"What if being with him does not feel like misery?" he asked the night.

There was no reply from either ghosts or beasts. All he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and the creak of the house around him.

When the dawn came, he poured the dark night of his heart out onto the page, where the ink could bleed him and cleanse his wrath and his grief, in his own private imitation of confession.


-


The play came together after that. Once the door was open, the words poured from his pen, day after day.

He worked as though in a fever, blackness pouring from his heart onto paper. Days he spent at The Theatre were vague, and every waking moment he carried his pages with him. He lived and breathed words, his mind was centuries ago, and he walked through his days in a dream.

He took scarce regard of the days bleeding into nights and into days again, save for when his eyes overtired and closed at his table.

That was why he did not at first take note of the shouts outside his room, until they were loud enough to pull him back to himself.

"Will! Will!"

It was the voice of another lodger, and footsteps thundered as loud as the weather outside.

Will opened his door to see a man on the landing below him.

"You got a messenger, Will!"

Behind him, another head appeared, with dripping hair, and a smile that was far too pleased.

"You're not a messenger."

"Am I not?" Kit asked, without surprise. "And yet, I bear a message." He walked like a cat, silent and confident, until he stood before Will's door.

"From whom is this message?"

Kit smiled. "Myself. I have news."

Will stepped aside to let him in. As before, the room seemed too small to contain such a force of personality. That became even more apparent when the door was shut. The room was at once warmer and more stifling. The air inside was as alive as was the thunder storm outside.

"The man who's been following you is a friend of Robert Greene."

Was that why Kit had been at the ale house? The question in Will's head was followed by a far more sinister thought. "Has he followed me more than once?"

"But of course," Kit said, as though that wasn't horrifying knowledge.

Will cast his gaze out the window. Rain had turned the street to mud, and ladies held their skirts as they walked. Will could see a boy struggling to move a stubborn goat, and the tailor from around the corner, running with a parcel, but there was no sign of a lurking stranger. Though in fairness, Will had been consumed by his play for days.

"You won't see him," Kit said, behind him. "Even prowlers don't like the rain. Though, I admit, some of us will endure it if we must."

"Another spy?" Will asked.

"Mm, no. My associates have not heard of him. As you know, Mister Rogers works for Henry Lanman, of the Curtain Theatre, but all he knows of you are your plays. No, I believe John Rogers is working alone on this."

A terrible thought came to Will: "If I do not see him..." Will swallowed the sense of dread that tasted bitter in his mouth.

"Yes?" Kit inclined his head in curiosity. He looked almost innocent, but Will could not let the thought go. It writhed black and suspicious in his mind.

Will stepped closer, to face him. "How do I know you have not simply conjured a villain as an excuse to follow me yourself?"

Kit straightened his back, eyes sparking danger. "Would I make believe a threat just so as I may chase your tail?"

Will bristled at the choice of words. "That is what I asked. And my tail is not your concern," he said, boldly.

"Oh, but it is," Kit strolled closer, "and I'm flattered that you think me capable of such a... plot." He rolled the last word around his tongue until it sounded positively indecent, and his eyes roved over Will with a hunger that made Will feel like a trapped animal.

Fury flared in his belly, and Will closed the distance between them with one step. "Did you?"

Kit held his smile for a moment. "No," he sobered. "I'm afraid the threat is real." He stepped back towards Will's table, slender hands dancing over the papers there.

Will let out his breath, more relieved than he had expected, and more relieved than warranted perhaps, given the danger was real.

Outside, the rain poured on, and the sky flashed at intervals, grumbling and shaking the city.

"Why should nature build so foul a den?" Kit read out. "Well, clearly the gods delight in tragedies."

It was exactly what Titus Andronicus needed.

Will snatched up his pen and ink to scribe the words before they could abandon him.

Kit only watched in quiet interest.

"Then why me?" Will asked. "Why would an actor and writer from a different theatre follow me? Not even to approach me for a role or ask any questions?"

"Why, indeed?" said Kit, plucking the pen from his fingers to place it carefully aside, like a precious thing. He didn't let go of Will's hand. Kit's own hands were smooth, marked only by ink, like a scholar, spared of hard labour.

"And what if he pursues me for the same reason you do?" Will asked.

Kit's face darkened. "I certainly hope not."

"Why? You don't like the competition?"

"I fear no competition," Kit's exhale brushed across Will's lips, not quite a kiss.

Will's heart quickened in the familiar way. He knew this feeling. He had felt it with Anne once, and most recently with Alice. Curious, he pressed closer.

The table creaked, but it held solid as he backed Kit into it. Their eyes were only on each other.

"What holds thee back?" Kit breathed.

Will's entire body warmed at the proximity. He could feel every drawn breath and exhale; they were nose to nose now.

Kit's eyes flashed. "Take it!" he hissed.

But Will held back, and watched his lips move.

"Take what thou desires, Will Shakespeare!" His legs were on either side of Will's thighs in flagrant invitation, but still Will held back.

"This desire, this is not love," Will said.

Kit laughed deep in his chest. "No, it is not. It is the fire of Jove for Ganymede, a moth to a flame that may yet burn it alive. But while a flash might be but a moment in time, bright and ephemeral, and never again, it has its place in nature too."

Will held his gaze, thought about kissing that untamed mouth, and held steady.

"What dost thou fear?" Kit whispered between them. "God? The Devil? I hear you have a wife?"

"No. My wife and I have made our peace with that horse named adultery, and this? It does not feel wrong."

"Then what holds thee back? Thou dost feel it too, I know it."

"We are not good for each other," Will said, finally.

"Well, of course not! I would not be here if we were! We may even destroy each other, but if we can bear it, that is where we must be to find the limits of inspiration at the very boundaries of life itself. I am not afraid. And what of thee?"

Will breathed.

He took one more deep breath that was filled with Kit, tobacco and expensive fragrances, and stepped away.

The sound of thunder was loud.

Kit's eyes were very dark. "I see." His legs remained splayed in wanton display where Will had stood.

Eyes to the grey sky, Will didn't look around when he heard Kit stand.

"In truth, I cannot blame you for fleeing from me. God knows I have tried to flee from myself also."

Will turned to see Kit's gaze shift from the sky back to him. "It is not you that I flee. I put in danger the woman who shared my mind like no other. I cannot forgive myself for that."

Kit reached for Will's pen again and carried it with him.

Without a word, he placed the pen in Will's hand. His lips touched Will's cheek in what was scarcely the most chaste of all kisses, and far sweeter than Kit had ever shown.

"Thy mind is thine alone. Write, Will, for all thou art and breathe light into this foul den."

Kit turned from him, hair still wet around his face, damp clothes clinging to his form, and made towards the door again. A part of Will wanted to go after him, but he tramped it down.

"You will pursue me," Kit said, with all the confidence in the world.

Will clenched the window frame in his fist.

An honourable villain, he thought. A beautiful tyrant.

The words came to him for that play he had begun with Alice, and now they came like water rushing down an overflowing river.

When the door shut behind Kit, Will snatched up his papers in a frenetic search for his second play, before sitting down to write once more.

These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
which as they kiss consume.


-


Will was seated at the edge of the stage, so that he was not interfering in the scene, while Simon and Heminges tested their new weapons. With enough money coming in, the theatre could afford some new items for their performances.

He had paper from two plays on his knee and ink at his side, while whatever angels were helping his writing came to him through the wood of the theatre and caused his pen to fly.

At his side, Presto wrote out simple words, his own form of practise. Dog, frog, fog, log...

"I found a frog yesterday," Presto said, as he wrote. "I was going to put it in Mistress Bessie's bed."

"Is that because she makes you help her clean?" Will asked.

"She made me scrub pots before I could eat!" Presto cried with affront.

Will tried not to smile. He remembered what it was like to be Presto's age. "But you did not put it in her bed?"

"No. George convinced me to put it into one of the pots I scrubbed, so that it would jump out when she opened the lid," his face transformed into a wicked, little smile. "The scream was the best. Mistress Bessie chased us both outside, but it was worth it."

Will smiled back at him. George and Bess had built a house not far away, but had never been blessed with children of their own. Of all the places Presto had stayed, their offer to house him while he and George both worked at the theatre seemed to be doing all of them some good.

"Watch where you stick that sword!" Heminges yelped, and danced backwards, almost clear off the stage.

"Be still!" Simon gesticulated with his weapon in a wild movement that caught the light of the sun. "I wasn't anywhere near you! Besides, you have enough belly to spare with all those cakes George's wife keeps making. Now come back and fight me!"

Heminges bolted in the opposite direction.

The Theatre was busy this morning, but not yet harried as it always was before the afternoon performance. There was time to practise yet, clothes to prepare, and in the gallery someone with a broom was sweeping the floors. Will had written a total of one line more when James Burbage's voice made everyone jump.

"Will! Where is that playwright of ours?"

"Here!" Will called out.

James and Richard appeared from behind the curtains, twin looks of surprise on their faces.

"How goes the new play?" James asked.

"I am working on it now," Will told him.

"Is it as good as Marlowe's Faustus?"

"I will do my best," he said, although he knew in his heart that nothing he wrote would compare. There was only one Christopher Marlowe.

"Good," James accepted that. "Doctor Faustus is all the people want to talk about. If we don't deliver something of like quality, we might as well close our doors now. You have until the end of the week. And stop waving that sword around like a toy, Simon, it's a damned weapon!"

"That's what I told him!" Heminges complained.

Will swallowed as James vanished behind the curtain again. He had worked under stricter instructions, but the anxiety remained the same.

Richard stepped from one foot to the other, in an uncertain dance, before finally approaching.

Will tried not to expect too much as Richard sat down besides him, but hope fluttered in his chest, an eternal springing presence he could not ignore.

"Speaking of whom, where is Marlowe?" Richard began a little awkward. "I have not seen him around here recently."

"Nor have I," Will said. It was true. A week had passed since that day in Will's room, and longer since anyone else had seen the man. He had not been sighted at The Rose, nor dignified the Puritan protesters with any response. More likely than not, Kit was on one of Her Majesty's missions.

"I hope he's not busy writing another masterpiece. I don't think father could survive that sort of theatrical competition."

"Nor would any of us," Will said.

It was enough to make Richard smile.

"Richard," Will began, "I am sorry for everything that has happened. I promised Alice I would never hurt your family, and I failed."

"Please, Will," Richard stopped him. "I have two questions for you."

"Anything."

"Did you ever lie to my sister?"

"No," Will said, before he remembered. "Only when I told her I didn't want her any more. I hurt her then."

"Oh," Richard went quiet, as though he did not know what to do with that.

"What's the second question?" Will asked after Richard did not speak again.

Richard blinked, slowly. "Do you know where she is now?"

Will sighed and shook his head. "No. I can only guess that she is somewhere with Father Southwell, but I have not heard from either of them. If I hear anything, I swear I will tell you."

"Oh," Richard said again. "Yes. That's... Yes, good." He subsided into uncertain silence again.

"I would still like to apologise to you," Will said. "I never wanted to lie to you, and I'm sorry for everything."

"Actually, it's my fault," Presto spoke up. Both Will and Richard stared at him. "I'm the one who went to Topcliffe and told him about you. If it wasn't for me, he never would have come close to you."

"He might have, anyway," Will said, as gently as he could. "And you had no way of knowing what kind of a man he was. I cannot blame you for wanting to sell information to be a little less poor." They had spoken about this, and Presto still didn't understand why Will had given him a place to stay, or taught him to read, but perhaps one day, and perhaps with George and Bess' help, he would understand.

"Still, I'm sorry if I brought trouble to you and your family, Mister Burbage," Presto said.

Richard looked as though he was collecting his thoughts. "Well, if Will can forgive you, then I can too."

Presto nodded, although he still looked troubled.

"And, Will," Richard continued, "You did pull Alice from Topcliffe's hands, and for that, I must thank you." Richard clapped his shoulder with a firmness that conveyed his honesty.

"I had no choice. I could not have left her there."

"No, of course not. And if I am honest, I think I have been blaming you for my sister's choices because it was easier than accepting that I could not keep her safe myself. But the truth is, my sister has always had her own mind, and it is time I stop faulting you. Alice would do as she would, regardless of any of us."

Will's shoulders loosened, a weight falling from them. He lowered his voice. "I told Father Southwell to leave Alice out of it. I did not know how much she was meeting with him. If it hadn't been for Kit coming to find me, I would not even have known when she was arrested."

Richard nodded, and for the first time in weeks it felt like they were in agreement. "Then I would like to apologise too, for the way I have treated you these past weeks. You are my friend," he lowered his voice, "even if you are a filthy Catholic." But there was a familiar shine of humour in his eyes, and Will smiled in relief.

"And I have missed your friendship."

"Well, of course you have. Who else are you going to spend time with? My father?"

They both laughed, and Will's heart could have taken flight that moment were it not confined to his chest.

"In truth, I must confess, I did not expect you to forgive me," Will told him.

"I was not certain I could either. My family has endured much these past few months, but that is not all your fault, and you did help us save the theatre. Besides, Kemp and Simon are not much for substitute best friends."

When he bumped his shoulder into Will's, it was gentle enough for Will to nudge him back.

"Now, I must prepare. Petruchio must tame his shrew again in mere hours, and so, I shall leave you and the youngling to write." He stood and made an exaggerated bow, while Presto frowned at the name. "But we will be merry again, Will, at the ale house this night!"

"I will be there," Will agreed.

"Good man."

The sun shone brighter now, incongruous with the writing on his page. At least he was almost done with the play, Will thought, then he would not need to bleed ink much longer.


-


The day was like any other, the bustling market familiar as ever, the streets as though nothing was any different.

Will was proceeding towards the back of The Theatre, where walls narrowed and sounds rang clear.

It was a sound that caught his ear.

A shout.

"Halt!"

Will turned at hearing running feet.

Before he could grasp what was happening, there was an arm around his neck and a dagger at his jaw.

Will went cold.

"Stay back!" a man snarled in his ear.

A group of the Queen's Men stood at the end of the street, approaching slowly.

"I said, stay back!" the man with the knife bellowed, "or this whoreson will not live to see the morrow."

Will tried not to move, to avoid the blade that was far too close to his face. It was difficult when the man began to drag him backwards.

The Queen's Men were still advancing. "John Rogers!" one of them called out.

Will's stomach dropped.

"You are wanted for conspiracy against Her Majesty. Lay down your weapon!"

Rogers breathed heavy in Will's ear. "Don't try to escape, Mister Shakespeare. I have been waiting for this for a long time."

"Have I ever done you any wrong?" Will asked, as he was dragged further back. The path led to the theatre's back door. If he could only make it there.

"Not me, but Greene? He hates you. Do you know how they mock him now?"

Will's mind ran faster. Rogers was angry because Will had humiliated his friend, Greene, in a rhyming game once?

The Queen's Men were still too far away, and the dagger's blade much too close. Cold iron touched his chin.

"I'm sorry," Will tried to say.

"You should apologise to Greene. It don't look good for the rest of us."

Will wanted to ask who "the rest of us" might be, but the arm around his neck tightened painfully. A rock turned under his shoe, and he tried not to stumble. One wrong move could gash open his face, or accomplish Rogers' threat for him.

Their stumbling gait had them nearly at the theatre door, with Will keeping up as best he could. All he needed was a moment for that arm to loosen or for that blade to lower. Only one moment.

"Mister Rogers, do not make this worse by bringing further charges upon yourself," one of the Queen's Men said, trying to calm everything with patient words.

Rogers grunted and kept moving.

"I have a question."

The new voice made Rogers startle, his dagger jostling dangerously close to Will's neck.

Kit leaned against the jamb of the open theatre door, looking as though he had been there the whole time, but his face was vicious with rage.

"Marlowe!" Rogers snarled back.

"Yes. Tell me, when you snarl like that, do the nearby bitches mistake it for a mating call?"

Those words did nothing to help the situation, and only made Rogers tremble with fury. Will had never thought he might die as much as he did in that moment. And then, Rogers pointed his blade at Kit instead.

It was enough.

With all his might, Will brought his elbow back with a force that made Rogers howl. The arm on him loosened, and Will pushed away.

At once the Queen's Men were there, knocking Rogers to the ground.

A slender hand pulled Will out of the confusion.

"Poxy cocklorels!" Rogers cried, even with half a dozen men upon him.

"Let me see," Kit leaned in to touch Will's jaw.

"I am unharmed," Will said, stretching his neck to reveal unbroken skin.

"Good. Now, come," Kit turned from the men as though he did not surely know them all personally.

"I never even saw his face," Will said as the awareness came to him. There was nought but a pile of struggling men in the street now, his pursuer somewhere in the dirt beneath them.

"You did not miss anything, I promise you." So saying, Kit placed an arm around Will's shoulders to guide him inside.

Will let him. "What about you? Is it safe for you to be seen with the Queen's Men?"

"But I am not with them. I am merely a friend, fortuitously happening by," the humour danced across his face, and Will huffed a laugh, high and shaken.

"Of course."

Behind them, Rogers was still yelling. "Traitorous churls! Swiving sodomites!"

Kit leaned in as the door fell closed. "I prefer being a catamite myself."

"Oh. Uh..." Will went cold and warm in swift succession, and he almost forgot what he was about to ask. Almost. "Is it true that Rogers was conspiring against the crown?"

"You heard the charges."

Will stopped and glanced around.

They were alone, though it would not stay that way long, as the remainder of the company started to arrive.

"I do not doubt there is evidence to arrest him, what I am asking is whether you had any hand in how this evidence came to be."

Kit gazed at him for a long time, calm and collected. "You ascribe me skills I cannot help but admire," he said at last.

"Did you?"

"It is easy to uncover a plot when the right people have the right motivation. I promise you, John Rogers was no innocent, and he was not a good person. Believe me on this." Kit may have been a bought liar, but those words sounded true.

And Kit had not led him wrong yet.

Will took a slow breath. His legs steadied. He was safe once again.

"Thank you. It seems you have become my own personal guardian angel."

"I shall tell that to the Puritans when next they show up outside The Rose." Kit's smile was bright and true. "I told you I would not see you harmed. Thou canst repay me with time."

"Too little payment for so great a debt," Will recited. How many times had he heard those words upon the stage here?

"My dear Will, thou wilt have enough time. I may fly too close to the sun, but thou wilt reach the stars, each and every one." Kit's face conveyed only truth and certainty. For a man without faith, he spoke with more conviction than some holy men.

Will had never wanted to kiss him more, and being afraid of himself was becoming intolerably wearying.

He had done this more than once before, but it was not Alice with him now. This was something new, and while the fear lingered, it was also inevitable since the day he had met Kit, like a boulder rolling down a hill that must eventually meet its end.

Will leaned in, until his lips almost touched Kit's ear. "Meet me in Hell."

"Certainly." Kit's eyes lit once again with hunger, a desire that Will had once feared would consume him.

He was no less sure of that now, but the fear was finally being subsumed by a far greater desire. He could not be afraid in the face of that.

Will's way through the theatre was interrupted by James Burbage, who could not wait to speak to him about Titus Andronicus, and how eager he was to perform and see the audience react. He was certain it would be another success. He held Will's most recent copy in his hand and was fairly bounding with delight.

By the time Will made it under the stage, he found Kit already there, leaning against a support and cloaked in shadows.

"So this is where thou taketh thy concupiscent paramours."

"Only one." Will made certain the door was shut before he exhaled. This space held many memories for him, all of them both sweet and sorrowful.

Kit didn't move when Will approached, watching with low-lidded eyes until they were face to face.

"Now, two," Will added.

He watched Kit breathe, saw his chest rise and fall, and his gaze drift to Will's lips.

Will collected himself and reached up to touch Kit's jaw. It was as warm as he remembered. Kit's hair tickled the back of his hand, and under his thumb he could feel the fair stubble that he could not see in the dim light of Hell.

"You make me feel alive," he said.

"And?" Kit said. "Do not be soft with me. I am not one of thy mistresses, and I am nobody's replacement."

Will leaned in until his gaze went vague and their noses touched. "I am aware of that."

He cast aside his fears, and caught Kit's mouth with resolve. Kit's lips were soft and pliant and a surge of desire flared in Will's bones. It was more than he could have imagined, and exactly what he wanted.

A hand slid into his hair, and then Kit was kissing him back, with no less fervour.

This time, when Kit pushed him, Will pushed back. The scent of him was tobacco and perfume, like a wealthy man, and it filled Will's senses.

His hand traced the line of Kit's jaw, the curve of it sharp against his palm, but despite the roughness of his stubble, the skin of his face was warm and tender to the touch. Will couldn't get enough, and he tugged at Kit's lips with playful spirit.

Another tongue met his, just as playful and enticing, drawing him into the heat of another mouth, and Will chased it, seeking and sharing the heat between them. He could have sunk inside that wet warmth forever.

True ardour flamed to life, and he pressed his body against Kit's, in reversal of that black night on the street, holding them both fast against the support post.

"Yes," Kit breathed into his mouth before they were kissing again. Strong and slender arms wrapped around Will's shoulders, pulling him closer. Kit's chest was flat and firm, like Will's own, and he could feel it move with each breath and heartbeat, in the rhythm of his body. They were close enough that Will could feel muscles shift, their bodies coming together as their mouths communicated without words.

When Will rested his other hand on Kit's waist, he found the flex of his abdomen and a hint of warm skin beneath his clothes. He spread his fingers to feel more, taking in the shapes and curves of another man's body. It was not unappealing. In fact, the opposite. When Will traced his hand up Kit's side, all he could feel was heat, and all he wanted was more.

Kit's arms tightened around him, hands on his back moving to touch more, to hold him steadier.
Losing himself in that dark space was easy, with Kit's mouth hot and open, his body so warm and alive. Time slipped away; the world was forgotten.

The longer they stayed wrapped together the more heat rose through Will's blood as from inner flames, rousing them both, and the nearer their bodies, the more clear that became.

At last Kit broke away with a pant for air, and pressed his forehead to Will's temple. Will's own blood was pounding in a way that did nothing to lessen the heat between them.

They were both breathing hard, and Kit's arms remained resting around him, his thumb smoothing circles on Will's shoulder.

"Come to me this evening," Kit breathed into his ear. "After the performance, come to me and thou might stay until the morning."

"Not now?"

Kit laughed, low and breathless. "No. If thou art to come to my bed, it will be a proper bed. It may not be of import to me, but it will be to thee."

Will did not know what that meant, but Kit kissed him before he could ask.

"Come to me and I will show thee whatever thou might ask."

Will's hands lingered on Kit, on his face and body, not wanting to let go just yet. He ached to continue what they had been doing but reminded himself to nod. "Tonight."

"Tonight," Kit confirmed.

When he slowly and unwillingly moved to step back, Will knew he would need to remain here for a while longer to bear the inconvenience of their activity until it eased.

Kit showed no such shame as he corrected his clothes. Instead, he looked as pleased as a well-fed cat.

Will did his best to slow his heartbeat. It was not easy, for his blood held fast to the heat.

"I shall see thee then," Kit said.

Even after he was gone, the sense of him remained behind in the air and on Will's body, and he tried not to think about what might await him that night.

It was a long time before Will was composed enough to emerge from the bowels of the stage and face the workday.


-


The last time Will had been to Kit's ridiculously large house they had scarcely known each other. Kit had done much to provoke him, had challenged and kissed him.

Clearly, not very much had changed since.

Once again, Kit had in his hand a goblet that he offered to Will.

"What's this?"

"Aqua vitae," Kit smiled, "Or Lethe River water. Your choice."

It was strong and burned on the way down.

"Come," Kit said, and took his hand.

The bedroom was new, and just as large as Will had expected. This time, when Kit kissed him, Will kissed him back.

Even knowing what he was doing, walking into temptation, lust, adultery, sodomy, the guilt did not come. When he touched Kit's bare skin, all he felt was heat, desire, and peace. Kit's own hands were those of a lover, full of skill and touches that knew how to draw pleasure from a man's body, how to guide and encourage.

It was a simple act to once more lose himself in skin and warmth, in another body that pulled him close.

"Cover me," Kit said as they went down on the bed.

When Will sank inside him, Kit cried out as though the heavens had opened for him, and it was a sound Will knew he would never forget. He had to kiss him then, as Kit's legs tightened around him, holding him close.

The fire in the grate burned low as that between them flared all the higher. They moved together in the fading light of embers, and Will determined he had been wrong to think that this was not a form of love. It might not be what he had had before, and it might not be forever, but it was nonetheless a quiet sort of affection, its own kind of love, and it was sacred in its own way.

His uncle was wrong too. This was far from any kind of misery that Will had ever known.

The sight of Kit with his head thrown back as he spilled could have been a painting.

Will followed him not long after, and as they lay panting, the night closed in with the distant sound of church bells.


-


In the morning, Will at first did not recognise the bed in which he lay, but when he looked to the side he knew that face.

Sunlight made Kit seem fairer, his hair glinting with gold as it fanned around his face like a tarnished halo. He slept at ease, more innocent than he ever looked awake.

They were too few precious moments before Kit stirred, and his pale eyes fluttered.

"Good morning," said Will.

Kit groaned. "I slept well." He sounded more confused than those words should have warranted.

"Dost thou not usually?"

"No." Kit rolled to face Will better. "Thou art still here." He remained relaxed, even as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

"Didst thou expect me to flee?" Will was comfortable in bed. It was warm and much softer than the one waiting in his room and he saw no reason to return to that bed in any haste.

"Catholic guilt? I thought it a possibility after I had dragged thee into damnation."

"Thou dost not believe that, and I..." Will stopped to collect his words. "I have never been devout, but I still believe in a God who knows my heart and knows all that I feel, and last night I felt only peace, as though I was right where I was meant to be."

Kit regarded him lazily. "Do tell, Father Shakeshaft."

"Stop it!" Will did not want to be vexed this early. "I knew what I felt when I was around you, and I confess it made me afraid. But I am tired of being afraid. In my heart, this does not feel wrong, and you are neither my temptation nor my damnation. You are but a man beside me in this theatre of life. Heaven or Hell? Those are for more learned men than I. I am a simple man. Only writing, that is what I have been placed on this Earth to do. Why? What did Father Southwell tell you?"

Kit sighed. "He told me that the way to Heaven was not closed even to such as me. He told me that I was forgiven. But he revealed himself to be a hypocrite."

Will could not argue with that. "If there is one thing in my life that will condemn me, it is that I cannot find it in my heart to forgive him. Not for how he sacrificed Alice for his own freedom."

Kit roused to lean up on his elbow. "Then we have something in common. Come along. Break your fast with me."

He stood, still gloriously naked, which made Will want to follow.

He did not resist the urge, and pursued Kit with light bones and a heart filled with peace.


-


Will dipped his pen in ink and continued to copy actor's scripts. It was no hardship to ignore the distant sounds of the Theatre, wrapped in ink and paper and in the shadows behind the stage. Here, he was alone with his words.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and a glance at the rings on those fingers told Will exactly who it belonged to.

"I thought you were meeting with Henslowe today?"

"I was," Kit leaned against the table, though he kept his hand on Will's shoulder. "He has asked about a new play. I am thinking about delivering him the tale of King Edward the Second. You know that he had a lover, a man by the name of Piers Gaveston?" As he spoke, his fingers twined themselves in Will's hair, just behind his ear.

Will only knew very little from his schooling. "I did not know that."

"Yes, it was quite the scandal. Edward was rather disliked during his reign. I am inclined to write a revenge-tragedy of it."

"The censor will never allow it."

"But he will if I write it as history and politics. Perhaps you'd like to help me work on it?"

The way Kit was playing with his hair made Will smile. "I am not certain thou shalt get much work done with me there."

Kit's expression was very dry. "That is rather the point."

Will was determined not to react to the playful comment. "And what of thy other lovers?"

"Regrettably, they are not writers. They could neither assist with my play, nor do they posses thy skill with which to wield a pen."

Will went hot.

"Will! Will!" Richard called from elsewhere.

"Yes!" Will burst out. "Tonight! I shall come to thee."

Kit smirked, leaning closer. "Good." He stole a kiss moments before Richard appeared around the corner.

Richard did not even stop to blink. "Will, you are a genius!"

Kit stepped away with a polite nod. "Master Burbage."

"Marlowe," Richard continued, "Listen to this: Here lurks no treason, here no evil swells, here grow no damned grudges, here are no storms, no noise, but silence and eternal sleep. Is that not among the greatest poetry you ever did hear? Father is beside himself with eagerness, he paces in his agitation as he recites his lines."

"Yes, most marvel-rousing," Kit said, though he sounded anything but filled with marvel.

"Jealous?" Will asked, with only a little insolence.

Kit's crooked smile was at once arrogant and wry, doubt and confirmation in one expression. "Pride is not a virtue either," he said drily, with a playful tug on Will's hair. "And with that, I shall see thee later."

Richard watched him walk away without a word, but as soon as he was out of sight, Richard pulled up a chair. "Now listen, I know you and I have not been close recently, but as your friend, I feel I must warn you: there are rumours about Marlowe."

"Rumours?" Will asked, thinking of how Kit had kissed him only moments earlier. He was certain Kit cared little for any rumours about his inclinations.

"Yes," Richard leaned closer so that they were speaking privately. "They say he's a spy for Her Majesty's Secret Service."

Will bit down on a smile. "Thank you, Richard. I appreciate the concern, my friend." His heart warmed with relief that he had his friend back. This was one thing that Topcliffe could not destroy in the end.

"Well, I wouldn't want you to get wrapped up with people who might arrest you," Richard added. "Also, Simon wants to know how much gore-blood he should organise with the stage pieces to satisfy the audience."

Will lifted his pen. "I am writing his copy now. Tell him to organise as much as he thinks will bring people into the theatre."

Richard nodded. "Enough to rival the town square stage; we shall see to it."

Will smiled, dipped his pen back into his ink, and continued with his writing.



-

Originally posted: [2021-04-24] https://archiveofourown.org/works/30871364