The Lit Pit

A Byronic Confession

Riding high off of the Fifth Baron Byron's recent, incredibly timely and convenient death, or as Lord Byron knew him - dear old Uncle William, Byron strolled into school with some extra metaphorical pep in his step. This was Byron's junior year attending the Literary School of the Disciplines. Honestly, things were looking up despite him coming into old money. Hopefully Scotty Fitzgerald wouldn't mind too much.

And maybe Byron would impress a certain someone with his newly minted ascot.

Ugh, ascot.

Byron hurried past the storage closet at the corner of the hallway - domicile must have been haunted with all of its odd bumping and caterwauling noises and whatnot. Bashō said the place was bad news. And dude was a senior at LSD, so he probably knew his stuff.

The bell for first period rang, although Byron fully planned to ignore it. Instead he shoved his comically light backpack into his locker. He would've closed it and been on his merry way, had it not been for freaking Chekhov hiding behind his locker door like some cherry-faced four-eyed jumpscare waiting to scare him into Dante's nine circles of Hell.

"Heeeeeey Byron," Chekhov said. "You should notice I have upgraded."

Byron did not appreciate how smug he was being - especially since the aforementioned 'upgrade' was from a run-of-the-mill mini water gun to a Nerf gun peashooter.

Unfortunately, Byron had learned long ago that when it came to Chekhov, it was better to just humor him until the lad went wayward. Like a bug. A really existential bug.

"I can see that," Byron said, extemporaneously bored.

Chekhov showed off his Nerf gun, caressing it with the suaveness one would afford a beautiful woman. It was uncomfortable, even for Byron - a self proclaimed notorious womanizer. The display went on way too long.

"Wait 'till you see the kickback on this thing!"

Byron pivoted immediately. Nope. "Dost not care!" he called over his shoulder. "Tah tah!"

Byron didn't turn back as he headed for the library, but he could, with utmost certainty, hear the muted sound of what was probably Chekhov firing a pellet of foam bullets at some fated victim as the kid scurried off down the linoleum-encrusted hall.

The concave halls of the library may have appeared dreary and relatively empty, but Byron knew better. He headed straight for the Horror section.

Byron sauntered down the ever-darkening selection of horror, only the thoughts of his special someone forcing him onward. He knew his soon-to-be lover would be in the furthest reaches of the blasted section - much to Byron's supreme dismay. A swift tug to his wind-swept ascot offered a meager amount of support as he trudged further amongst the shelves.

Soft muttering drew Byron's gaze toward the darkest corner, a small light reflecting dully against a face. That beautiful, sleep-deprived, and oh-so-depressing demeanor drove Byron to near poetry. Heaven forbid a sonnet. There, huddled with his knees to his chest and rocking briskly back and forth, was the love of Byron's Monday and Tuesday. H. P. Lovecraft.

Byron tilted his head down, the emitted phone flashlight shining on Lovecraft's concerningly pale complexion. Copious amounts of black eyeshadow pitifully hid the dark bags, large enough to fit an ink pot and several coiffed feathers, beneath Lovecraft's deep brown eyes.

Byron tugged once more at his ascot for good luck, releasing a breath before clearing his throat. "Um," Byron began, his voice catching in his tightening throat. "H. P.?"

The blinding light turned, shining directly into the poet's eyes. A gravelly voice resonated from the now completely darkened corner. "Yes? Who are you?"

Byron blocked the light from his eyes, clearing his throat once more. "I," he said, pausing dramatically after his delicate ego had been scratched, "am George Gordon, aka the new Lord Byron. I couldn't help but notice you in this... incredibly dark corner of the library."

"And?" Lovecraft growled lowly like a feral octopus.

Awfully impatient of him. "Well, I was thinking that if you are free tonight, we could... I don't know... go out?"

"And?"

"H. P., you are simply the most sublime creature I have ever shed a glance. The mountains in the north of Italy could ne'er begin to compare to your... pale brilliance."

Silence. Uncomfortable silence. The unfathomable quiet began to torment Byron as the flashlight shuddered. A beat, then a second. "And?"

Byron grit his teeth, his reliance on pure determination only growing with each simple response. "Thou art a work an artist worked upon diligently. I do not believe I can begin to compare thy indefinitely. For you steal the words from mine lips."

Lovecraft returned to the dreadful silence. Byron was beginning to run on his reserve poetry. "How?"

"How?"

"How do I steal the words from your lips? I don't even know you."

Byron furrowed his brow, frustration beginning to bubble within his chiseled chest. Lovecraft clearly did not understand the aspect of love whatsoever. "That's not the point, you imbecilic oaf! You have stolen the words from my lips, dammit! Now, your clever words are stealing the words from my very mind!"

"What the hell, man? Why?"

At long last, Byron determined that it was finally time to deliver his climactic confession. The very line he had practiced arduously for about forty-five minutes to his vanity. His magnum opus. His Byronic Confession™.

"These past few days, I have been thinking of you nonstop. I have dated many - but none have come close to you, H. P. I guess what I'm trying to say is..."

"Come on, man! Please! Just say it already!" Lovecraft exclaimed from the darkness, the flashlight jolting with each phrase.

"I love you, H. P. Lovecraft!"

The unbearable silence returned. The sheer desire to destroy the idea of dead quiet was bizarre, but in Byron's mind, it was the only way out. "So? What say you? Have you fallen for me yet?"

Lovecraft slowly turned the light back to his notepad nestled on his lap, his features dull. After a moment of thought, they contorted. Was that... disgust? Byron's hand rushed for his ascot.

"Ew, gay."

Byron's world shattered. This beautiful man that Byron longed for for the past forty-eightish full hours was a complete ass? There was no way. No possible way. "If that's how it is... fine! I never want to see you ever again! You don't know what you're missing out on!"

Lovecraft ignored his jab, returning to his sporadic rocking and muttering. Dejected, Byron returned to the light-filled library. He trudged out of the library, his heart beating sadly - entombed in the floorboards of his ribcage, thrashing wildly in an Edgar Allan Poe-ian fashion, as each thought of H. P. Lovecraft slowly died.

Of course, Byron ignored the actual Edgar Allan Poe - lurking in another corner of the library, nearly imperceptible, and towing that creepy raven with that one glassy eye.

Slowly, Byron opened the door, stepping out with a heavy sigh. Suddenly, a quiet puff of air sounded, frightening the wounded young man as a gentle sting caressed his skin. Byron snapped his head around, finding Chekhov with a shit-eating grin on his face. He spun that stupid little peashooter around his finger, popping it into his crude holster.