The Last Romantics

Art For Our Sake

That night at the fire John came bearing bad news, for I could tell as soon as he walked through the door that he was carrying a far heavier burden atop his shoulders. He did not at first tell his tale, which I rather appreciated. Though it made me worry, and throughout the duration of the night I knew that whatever laughs we had, whatever smiles we wore, well all would be worn away sooner or later. Something dreadful was on our conversational horizon, and the weight of this topic was barring me from enjoying myself as much as I should. Our conversations were mostly discussing about his adventures, for they were so numerous that sometimes he could talk for hours straight about one trip on those boats, visiting various countries or talking with strange people. For someone so poor he had lived a very well traveled life, and his stories could entertain me for as long as he was willing to speak. His voice was something of a majestic pitch, his words had such enthusiasm, and he spoke as if he had told the story many times before, at last perfecting it to make sure my interest was always peaked. Tonight his stories wore off, for both of us could tell that there was a shadow hanging about the darkened room. I was the first to drop my smile, and he followed shortly.
"You seem troubled, John." I muttered at last, to which John allowed his head to nod very shortly.
"I am troubled." He admitted. "Something's come up, another voyage that I've been asked to take part in. I'm...well I'm a good sailor Sherlock. They want me on board."
"I never doubted it for a moment." I assured. "But why the heavy heart?"
"It's a long trip, supposed to take at the very least a year, but if we have rough weather, if we have troubles with cargo...well they warn me that I could be away for almost two years." John admitted at last.
"A year? Where on earth are you going to go that is going to last a year?" I wondered anxiously.
"The Philippines." John admitted. "Around Africa and through to Asia, but those are dangerous waters. Dangerous people there, too. Mostly the Dutch."
"Well the way you talk about it, it makes it sound like a suicide mission." I muttered worriedly. John allowed himself a laugh, clutching to his tea cup a bit tighter as if to give himself something to grip. He seemed anxious, though he didn't want to express it outright. He didn't want to make me any more worried than I already was.
"It's been done before, by so many before me." John assured. "A great many of them still live."
"A great many have died." I added carefully, remembering back to so many terrible accidents that had happened at sea, all caused by misfortunes that shattered families in England.
"Well, people die every year. I've been lucky, and I really do suspect that my luck will continue. I'm tenacious, you know? And now I finally feel like I have a purpose in life, someone to come back to. I won't go down so easy." John assured with a little smile, that smile I had come to adore.
"Well...well why are you going to agree to go? Why not stay working on the docks, keep up spending time here?" I suggested quickly, realizing that there may be another option to such a long voyage at sea.
"I would love to, but the money's no good just working on the docks. This trip will be worth it; this trip may even be my last if I save my money right. I need one more voyage, just a chance to see a part of the world I've never discovered before! I've been to China before; it's not so much different than that trip I don't suppose." John admitted at last.
"But the money...well you see the money that I've got these days. It's still coming in, poetry can be your outlet. Do you have your poems with you?" I asked anxiously, setting down my cup of tea so as to receive the poems that were at once produced within my hands. I opened the folded, looking through it to find at least eight solid poems, all of which would make their place in a decent book of poetry.
"Well what about it?" John wondered. "I can't make that much off newspaper publications, not as much as this trip would give me."
"No, not with newspapers." I agreed quietly. "But you can write a couple more, can't you? Write something perfectly...well something perfectly astonishing."
"Oh let me just." John laughed. "If writing something astonishing was as easy as following an instruction then everyone would have done it, wouldn't they?"
"No, not the poem itself. All of your works are astonishing in craftsmanship, I simply mean astonishing in topic. You need a headliner to this book, John. Something that would force people to read it, something scandalous." I suggested at last.
"Scandalous?" John chuckled. "Now just what are you suggesting I do? Certainly you're hoping I pick up your train of thought but admittedly I fall short."
"Write about me." I said at last, nodding my head anxiously. "Write about me, and how you fell in love with me, and about all sorts of homosexual topics you can think of. Write of sailors, for Victor tells me they've got their own network of crimes. Write on anything that would shock a lady, frighten a man, and make an elder kneel over with a heart attack."
"And end up in jail?" John presumed.
"End up on a stage. Art for art's sake, is that not the saying? What can they imprison you for, if you claim to have just observed? It's not...well it's not a confession if you write it clever enough. Admit to some things but make it so that they have multiple means, tread tracks and cover them at the same time. You'll be an enigma, John, a visionary." I insisted, now getting very excited over this idea. Perhaps if John could manage a beautiful book of poetry then he would be able to skip over this dangerous voyage, he would be able to sustain himself properly.
"That's an idea, I suppose. But how long will the publication process take? I've got to declare my intentions by this weekend at latest for the voyage, and then we set sail in three weeks." John muttered.
"Is it a binding contract? Can you worm your way out of it, should something better come up?" I wondered.
"I suppose I could, but they'd not like me very much after that. We've got something of an honor's system in the shipyards, you hold to your word or else you can't be trusted any longer. Breaking a promise is about as crippling as breaking a bone." John admitted quietly.
"Oh what does it matter, you won't need them anymore should you back out. You won't need to work that job, how wonderful would that be? You'll be like me, like Victor. One of the age's great poets." I whispered, my smile breaking into a very enthusiastic smile at long last.
"You think yourself one of the greats? How terribly humble." John chuckled. I knew of course that he was kidding, though I allowed my face to follow its first urge and slump down into a nervous little frown.
"I didn't mean it like that." I managed quietly, to which John merely smiled and patted my outstretched hand in some reassurance.
"I'm just kidding with you, Sherlock. You are humble, you're a great man. A perfect one, dare I use such a word." John assured. I smiled, blushing quite unintentionally, though I trapped his hand in my own. I was not going to let that opportunity go to waste, that was for sure.
"I'll make you famous, John Watson. I'll make you rich. And you'll never have to leave my side again." I whispered eagerly, clutching his hand within my own and giving it a reassuring squeeze. John nodded his head, as if he liked that idea very much. I was beginning to wonder if we might share a kiss that evening, for the mood was certainly right for it. My heart was fluttering, his pulse was racing, and our hands were so softly interwoven that it would be difficult now to pull away. The fire was crackling cheerfully in the hearth, dancing its rays of soft orange light across our eager little faces and as far as I knew, we were alone. The time was right, the setting was perfect. All I had to do was muster a little bit of courage.
"What a pleasant evening it is." Interrupted the voice of Victor Trevor, basically the last voice I wanted to hear as I was beginning to lean forward, oh so minutely that no one would have noticed just yet. I had been lost in the eyes of John Watson, interrupted by my daring host, and all together I felt a wave of irritation pass over me. That man, oh he really did have some nerve.
"Mr. Trevor!" John exclaimed, pulling his hand away from mine as if he felt rather exposed, as if he had been caught in the act.
"Oh no need to be frightened, Mr. Watson. I am certainly no threat." Victor assured with a calming sort of smile, come up next to the two of us and leaning next to the mantle, observing the two of us as if he was watching his first born begin to fall in love. There was a hint of something in his face, almost something hostile, though at the moment I did not fear it. I couldn't imagine what reason he would have to despise John, considering he had spent so much time trying to give me the confidence to declare my love to him. At the moment I thought Victor a trusting, reliable friend.
"I'm sorry to be so jumpy, but these days I am afraid of most everything." John admitted with a coy smile.
"Afraid even of me?" Victor suspected.
"Of being seen I suppose, by eyes that I'm not all together familiar with." John muttered, which I translated to be a rather polite way of saying yes. Victor hummed, at last noticing the folder that was opened between the two of us, and inside he caught a glimpse of poetry.
"Are you trying your hand at the science of language?" Victor presumed, to which John blinked and tried to figure out what exactly he was talking about.
"Yes." He said at last, finally deciding to follow Victor's gaze down to where the papers were stacked.
"John is going to try to publish them, so that he doesn't have to go back to sea." I explained quickly. Victor nodded, obviously expressing some of his doubt whether he intended to or not. I knew that Victor wasn't always trying to be cynical, though at times his true emotions weren't hidden well enough. I had mentioned John's poetry a couple of times before, though Victor always doubted the boy's ability in the end. I was sure that he doubted there existed so many great poets, perhaps even in one room.
"May I see them? Give you a critique?" Victor suggested, holding out one of his rather beautiful hands towards where the papers were lying. John nodded, eagerly handing the folder over to the much more experienced poet. Victor thought for a moment, reading them over with quick and almost careless glances, as if his purpose was not to read them deeply but to humor John entirely. However as he read deeper, past some of the poems that John had written as mere filler, he began to spend longer. His eyes moved slower, they grew wider, and after a moment he came to look at John with a look of utmost appreciation.
"Mr. Watson, you may very well have a gift." He admitted at last, handing the folder back and looking quite impressed with his new houseguest.
"Thank you sir! Thank you, your compliment means the world to me." John said proudly, looking towards me as if to make sure I had heard Victor correctly.
"Do you think they can be published, at least for enough money to cover his living expenses?" I wondered quickly. Victor thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against the fireplace mantle and observing John up and down once more, as if now trying to determine all he could about the boy in such a short amount of time.
"I think there is profit to be made, surely. But with such a collection you may very well seek to publish a book, to make sure that you make more than silly newspaper pennies." Victor suggested.
"Yes, Sherlock told me that I ought to write something truly shocking. Something, well something they'd have to buy to believe." John admitted, to which I nodded quite enthusiastically.
"And that is?" Victor wondered, turning his eyes to me as if to make sure I was on the right track and leading John in the direction he really ought to go. I hesitated for a moment, shrugging as I realized that Victor may not agree wholeheartedly with my plan.
"I told him to write about us, without using names, without ever confessing to everything. I figured if the audience can read closely, if they can figure out the true meaning, well it'll be shocking enough to sell books." I suggested at last. Victor nodded, a look of deep concern falling onto his usually rather carefree face.
"And by us you mean homosexuals?" he presumed.
"More or less." John agreed a bit shyly.
"Yes." I said in response, figuring that he may as well get a solid answer. John was obviously a bit too intimidated to speak freely in front of Victor, though I knew him on a level of near complete understanding. I was not afraid to discuss anything with him, not anymore.
"That's a dangerous game to be playing with the general public, Mr. Watson. Sherlock is correct in assuming that it will sell, though what confessions might absentmindedly be drawn from the words I fear to consider." Victor admitted, not trying very hard to hide the concern evident in his voice.
"Sherlock told me to...oh what was your exact words? Leave tracks but hide them?" John muttered.
"I suggested the ability to interpret both ways. If approached he can just say that the reader was reading incorrectly. That's the beauty of well written poetry, there always is a safeguard built in, considering of course that it can be read a million different ways." I agreed quickly, so that Victor knew I wasn't going totally crazy with my schemes. Victor nodded quietly, looking as though he found that explanation perfectly worthwhile.
"Well then, Mr. Watson I do suggest treading carefully. Remember it is not only your reputation that is at stake, but that of everyone you interact with. If you get charged with such crimes, well it is only a chain of association that can lead to Sherlock's arrest, even my own." Victor warned.
"I'll do my best, sir. And of course I can screen it through Sherlock, even through your own eyes if you wish. I have but three weeks until the boat leaves, so it will be a rather quick process I'm afraid." John muttered, looking a bit apprehensive about taking on such an enigmatic poetry project in so short a time frame. Though it was necessary, was it not? Necessary for us all.
"And where is this boat going to be taking you, should you chose to embark?" Victor wondered.
"To the Philippines. It should be, well they say it may take at least about a year." John admitted. Victor's eyes sparkled, though at the moment I could not tell if that was a good omen or an early warning sign. Why he should take such interest was beyond me, though at the moment I felt it was good that the two were interacting. In my perception of my impending timeline they would have a lot of time together, and so the better they interacted the better my chances were of keeping them both in my life.
"Well then, Mr. Watson. Come have a drink with us, and we shall toast to your creativity and your muse." Victor suggested, beckoning us to follow him to the kitchen to retrieve a good bottle of wine.
"It would be an honor, sir." John agreed, scrambling up to his feet with me in his wake. I figured this sort of hospitality was a good sign. I figured, in that moment alone, that we were finally on the right track. Oh what a conniving devil was that man, what a devil he still is! And what a fool I was in those days. What a fool. 

John left rather unceremoniously; for Victor seemed to make it his goal to make sure the boy was ushered out as soon as politely possible. We had drank for a moment, talked for an even shorter moment, and then John was sent on his way with the rather eager though altogether very polite hands of my own host, that cunning snake who took the form of a man. When at last John had been removed from the premises Victor took his chair in front of the fire, sitting with his legs kicked up onto the coffee table and the syringe plunged deep into his forearm. He looked thoughtful, though I could tell there was a mark of anxiety upon his brow, as if he was suddenly becoming very troubled. He was plotting, perhaps a new poem, perhaps not.
"You speak of John Watson's muse, Victor, though never of your own. Have you been abandoned of all creativity?" I wondered quietly, sitting down on the couch opposite him and refusing the syringe with a shake of my head. I had sworn off of that poison since the last time I had taken it, the last and only time mind you. It had left me crazed and hallucinating, and I had never liked to be in such a vulnerable position. Therefore I simply lit up a cigarette, holding the thing for a little while to the flame of my match and watching the end smolder into soft black ash.
"I'm starting to notice that I can only write on a single topic, Sherlock. And even that is just lines, random lines, sporadic." Victor breathed, exhaling heavily through his nose and getting himself more comfortable within his chair. The drug was seeping into his system and with it his eyes were growing heavy, his face was becoming more realized. Unfortunately I know the feeling, the euphoria, and in those beginning moments of his all too familiar high I always felt that temptation. Though I snuffed it out with a puff of my own cigarette, figuring that I was already addicted to too many drugs for my liking.
"That's a sorry thing to hear. Though surely your one topic could, well perhaps it could make you the money you need." I suggested.
"I don't need anything, Sherlock." Victor snarled. "Are you assuming that I have grown poor?"
"No of course not. I'm just commenting on the fact that you live a lavish lifestyle, though on virtually no income. I know nothing of your family heritage; perhaps they have supplied you well?" I presumed, rather hoping that was the case. Considering the income I made on my work, which was comparable if not exactly that of what Victor had made in his glory days, well then we were both in some trouble. I dared look around me, at this newly furnished house, and wondered if it would all vanish before my feet in time. I was relying on Victor, and if he couldn't make ends meet then he would send the both of us to the poor house.
"You're correct." Victor muttered, to which I hung on with some suspense. "You know nothing of my family."