With two competent men at the helm, Byron finds himself content to lounge on the deck, languid from the heady Mediterranean sun. "What the devil are you doing?" he asks suddenly, voice thick from exhaustion.
"I am writing your elegy," Shelley replies, a bit too much glee in his voice. "Should you like me to read it to you?"
"Oh, yes," Byron says, voice flat. "Of course, I should like it very much. I should like it almost as much as the walk you promised me would last one hour."
"It wasn't so bad, was it?"
"We spent the night in the woods!" says Byron. "I had to sleep upon pine needles. I awoke with strange creatures assaulting me, and my hair had turned green!"
"They were ants," Percy reminds him, "and it was moss. You lived, did you not?"
"Barely."
Percy clears his throat: "Right. I shall begin now: Of lofty climes and deepest seas / We shall speak not: we speak of fleas / Bit to death, our golden boy / Beneath his pretentious trompe l'oiel / We mourn for him, as brave and dear / Then scuttle off to find some beer."
"Enough," Byron says, though his eyes give him away. "I shall have my revenge. And now, come sit with me. You are to be my servant boy, and feed me grapes till dusk."
"What happens after dusk?" Percy asks, a little frightened now.
"I'm not entirely sure, but someone is going to have to swab these decks."
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momijizukamori
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Date: 2011-10-19 11:46 pm (UTC)With two competent men at the helm, Byron finds himself content to lounge on the deck, languid from the heady Mediterranean sun. "What the devil are you doing?" he asks suddenly, voice thick from exhaustion.
"I am writing your elegy," Shelley replies, a bit too much glee in his voice. "Should you like me to read it to you?"
"Oh, yes," Byron says, voice flat. "Of course, I should like it very much. I should like it almost as much as the walk you promised me would last one hour."
"It wasn't so bad, was it?"
"We spent the night in the woods!" says Byron. "I had to sleep upon pine needles. I awoke with strange creatures assaulting me, and my hair had turned green!"
"They were ants," Percy reminds him, "and it was moss. You lived, did you not?"
"Barely."
Percy clears his throat: "Right. I shall begin now: Of lofty climes and deepest seas / We shall speak not: we speak of fleas / Bit to death, our golden boy / Beneath his pretentious trompe l'oiel / We mourn for him, as brave and dear / Then scuttle off to find some beer."
"Enough," Byron says, though his eyes give him away. "I shall have my revenge. And now, come sit with me. You are to be my servant boy, and feed me grapes till dusk."
"What happens after dusk?" Percy asks, a little frightened now.
"I'm not entirely sure, but someone is going to have to swab these decks."