You were one of the handful of poets staying at Byron's villa for the summer. You two had become aquatinted in London where you both realized you were fans of the other and there was an instant spark...Complicated because you two were both men and seeing other people...But it was undeniable.

So when the invite came to spend a summer with him you packed your bags and went off running to Geneva.

You were filled with wild, romantic ideas...Sure that you would grow as a poet and writer with your time this summer...But to your dismay you didn't have access to any wild flowers or clear lakes or sunrises...

A storm raged that whole summer...The result of a volcanic eruption on the other side of the globe. Most of the other writers had gone home now as there was no way to go out and write in all the rain and gloom but you stayed...And your bond with your host deepened. You two read eachother ghost stories and played with his animals and took all your meals together. Found nicknames for one another and shared secrets and gossip.

But you still weren't entirely comfortable...The storms kept you up...And you knew Byron suffered from insomnia and pain from his leg...So nobody was getting much sleep.

He finds you one night wandering around the house in your night shirt, restless and anxious and tired...And surprisingly soft he opens his arms for you...offering you a rather intimate position with him. "Come here...Poets deserve eachother. Only a writer will understand the pains of another writer." He says his voice low and gentle.