"Tell me about him," Kit asks, leaning an elbow on the counter.
The way Geoff smiles illuminates his face, even though his head is lowered, and he glances at Kit before returning his gaze to the knot in the wood his nail is scratching at. "He's..." He bites his lip, a gleaming set of teeth on the pink flesh, and tries again. "He's impossible. More stubborn than the worst mule I've ever met. Convinced that most of the world is out to get him. Obsessed with food and ale. He won't let me teach him to read, and he won't ever say anything."
Kit tilts his head to the side, a small smile playing on his lips. "Tell me about him, truly."
Geoff chuckles, because he knows exactly what his fellow writer means. "Instead of saying things, he'll show them. It's in his eyes, his smiles, the way he clenches his jaw and scowls at the ones he loves. He loves fiercely, protectively, and I pity the poor soul that would hurt his family and friends. He's got so much fire in him that it's coloured his hair bright red, and nothing will ever extinguish his flame. There's a riot of blue in his eyes when he's happy, or hurt, or his anger's been roused, the iciest winter instead when disappointment comes over him."
Kit turns back to his tankard of ale, takes a sip, looks at Geoff with melancholy eyes. "Listening to you fills me with sorrow, Master Chaucer."
Geoff raises his eyebrows, hand going instinctively to his chest as if to ask, 'To me?'
Kit nods, eyebrows knitting with vexation. "The way you talk of him... I never stood a chance, did I?"
Laughter bubbles up in Geoff's eyes, trickles past his lips, a sound of pure mirth which the writer reins in immediately. "I'm sorry, Kit. I suppose not."
But his laughter has drawn the smile out of Kit that he was trying to hold back, and the game is ruined. "Ay, and all the better for it."
Geoff leans forward, his interest sparked. "Have you met someone new, then? Who, pray tell."
"You'll adore him," Kit asserts, casually because he is, in fact, quite sure of himself. "He has a way with words... almost as good as me, I dare say."
"Ay indeed, this sounds rather impressive. And what is the lucky man's name?"
Kit smiles. "Not a lucky man, but Fortune's fool if you listen to him. He has notions of persecution."
Geoff winces. "I thought him a writer, now you make him sound an actor?"
"No, I've had my fill of those. In more ways than one. He is a writer. Will."
"Will," Geoff repeats, testing the name on his tongue. He frowns, and. "William Shakespeare? I've seen one of his. Richard Crookback... it was interesting. You've done much better."
"And will do again," Kit nonchalantly replies, and then leans toward Geoff, lowering his voice. "His best works tumble off his lips in bed, Geoff. You should hear him then. Come with me, I shall introduce you, before you hurry back home to the quaint little village where your Wat awaits."
Geoff finishes his own ale, and smiles. "Ay. Let us meet your new pet."
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The way Geoff smiles illuminates his face, even though his head is lowered, and he glances at Kit before returning his gaze to the knot in the wood his nail is scratching at. "He's..." He bites his lip, a gleaming set of teeth on the pink flesh, and tries again. "He's impossible. More stubborn than the worst mule I've ever met. Convinced that most of the world is out to get him. Obsessed with food and ale. He won't let me teach him to read, and he won't ever say anything."
Kit tilts his head to the side, a small smile playing on his lips. "Tell me about him, truly."
Geoff chuckles, because he knows exactly what his fellow writer means. "Instead of saying things, he'll show them. It's in his eyes, his smiles, the way he clenches his jaw and scowls at the ones he loves. He loves fiercely, protectively, and I pity the poor soul that would hurt his family and friends. He's got so much fire in him that it's coloured his hair bright red, and nothing will ever extinguish his flame. There's a riot of blue in his eyes when he's happy, or hurt, or his anger's been roused, the iciest winter instead when disappointment comes over him."
Kit turns back to his tankard of ale, takes a sip, looks at Geoff with melancholy eyes. "Listening to you fills me with sorrow, Master Chaucer."
Geoff raises his eyebrows, hand going instinctively to his chest as if to ask, 'To me?'
Kit nods, eyebrows knitting with vexation. "The way you talk of him... I never stood a chance, did I?"
Laughter bubbles up in Geoff's eyes, trickles past his lips, a sound of pure mirth which the writer reins in immediately. "I'm sorry, Kit. I suppose not."
But his laughter has drawn the smile out of Kit that he was trying to hold back, and the game is ruined. "Ay, and all the better for it."
Geoff leans forward, his interest sparked. "Have you met someone new, then? Who, pray tell."
"You'll adore him," Kit asserts, casually because he is, in fact, quite sure of himself. "He has a way with words... almost as good as me, I dare say."
"Ay indeed, this sounds rather impressive. And what is the lucky man's name?"
Kit smiles. "Not a lucky man, but Fortune's fool if you listen to him. He has notions of persecution."
Geoff winces. "I thought him a writer, now you make him sound an actor?"
"No, I've had my fill of those. In more ways than one. He is a writer. Will."
"Will," Geoff repeats, testing the name on his tongue. He frowns, and. "William Shakespeare? I've seen one of his. Richard Crookback... it was interesting. You've done much better."
"And will do again," Kit nonchalantly replies, and then leans toward Geoff, lowering his voice. "His best works tumble off his lips in bed, Geoff. You should hear him then. Come with me, I shall introduce you, before you hurry back home to the quaint little village where your Wat awaits."
Geoff finishes his own ale, and smiles. "Ay. Let us meet your new pet."