Yesterday's Feelings [1]
Rating: PG-13 as of now.
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my interest in the NFL.
Summary: Would you like to see a magic trick?
"Would you care to see a magic trick, sir?" When Paul McCartney said those words, a door flew open. An alternate universe, a path down another road, it spread itself in front of him as soon as he saw Prince John.
Perhaps the peasant (he preferred "sans culotte ", thank you) shouldn't have bothered talking to such a well dressed boy riding such a well groomed horse - but John Lennon's eyes were kind as he looked upon Paul, a twinkling hazel meeting with Paul's muddy brown.
"You're a magician?" John had asked curiously, to which Paul had smiled, watching him hop with practiced ease off of his horse.
"I guess that's for you to decide, isn't it?" Paul smirked as John looked almost taken aback, before his lips turned up into a smile of his own. A playful sort of mood settled around them, whilst the two wore matching grins; as if they were old friends meeting upon pure coincidence. John spoke, then, to Paul, quite a scene to behold for people much more prejudice than he.
"Well, then, why don't you show me?"
**
The months that followed the scenario in the street, once upon a time, they were kept secret, at first only documented in the hearts and minds of those that had experienced them. John would often go to Paul, where they would soon depart to a separate world of their own, always too eager to escape together to try and find something bigger than what they were, freedom, as John liked to hope, but Paul never really understood the word, having not a clue what the opposite would be, as he lived his life without boundaries.. The two boys became close as it continued, John always dressing down to the point where he was unrecognizable in public just to make things easier; both knew that the grandiose living space in which John resided was strictly off limits, the people in it in addition to that.
"What do you think you want to do when you get older?" The sun was streaming in dull rays as the afternoon faded; the two watched it lazily through Paul's bedroom window, making an effort to keep their words quiet, as if telling secrets back and forth. The Prince had directed the inquiry at Paul as he stared longingly out of the dusty glass. Paul eyed him curiously as he replied.
"A real illusionist, maybe. Definitely not something boring like my father- although, I suppose I don't think about it much too often. What about you?" John's eyes didn't leave the outside, as if he could measure the exact amount of time that it took for the sun to make its' slow descent over the hills.
"I want to be free." He said softly, and the silence that fell between the two was not an awkward one, but rather one composed of sorrow, a melody of sympathy weaving through the air around them.
Unable to control the impulse from deep within his heart, on a whim, Paul reached out, closing the minuscule amount of distance between them to touch John's hair lightly, contact being quite possibly the only form of comfort he could offer the boy.
John had often talked about his life as an "all powerful heir" (a term he said with sarcasm rolling off the tip of his tongue), always putting emphasis on the fact it was much more tedious and stressful than a life of leisure.
As a joke, Paul had asked if they could switch lives for a bit. John didn't laugh.
"They plan your bloody life for you, one minute at a time, each minute infinitely more boring than the last," John said, tossing a ball up in the air, his eyes following it up and down, up and down. Paul's gaze never left the Prince in distress, pain and frustration evident in his voice, and his response seemed to sound distant even to him.
"Well, what do they plan for you?" He asked, slightly unsure of what he could possibly say, not certain if the boy simply needed a good rant or an understanding ear.
John looked at Paul then, fire in his eyes as he spoke.
"That's just it! They don't tell me half the shite that I'm going to have to deal with." He paused before continuing his voice somber, more defeated than anything else. "I do know one thing, though." Paul looked up with curiosity.
"What's that?" The Prince cringed and sighed disdainfully, tossing the ball back into the air again; up and down, up and down.
"I'm getting married, Paul." For reasons unbeknownst to the smaller boy, his heart was already on the floor before the ball could land in John's palm again.
John responded with a contented sigh as Paul continued to stroke his hair lightly, relishing in the feeling of the soft auburn beneath his calloused fingertips.
"You know," He said quietly, weighing down the world with the impact of his words, "I'm only but a boy. How can I possibly take on the responsibilities of marriage? Of a family? Of a whole damn country?" Paul frowned, taking his hand away, and John turned to him with tears stinging in the back of his eyes; Paul could feel them as if they were his own.
With a conversation bringing them well beyond their tender age, John spoke again, not fully expecting a response, but not especially caring either way.
"I'm scared, Paul." These were the words, the only words that Paul wasn't expecting- for the amount of time he had known John, with all the misadventures (never lacking in chaos) that they took together, the small boy had never known a boy existed outside of the witty and sarcastic facade he put up to hide an apparently, scared lost and trapped child; and children, it's really what they were, building a friendship from dust of forbidden ground- a healthy one, one perhaps they needed to keep each other sane, but a doomed one none the less.
"I know," Paul said, lightly taking the Prince's hand in his own, then, and with the action, the two of them thought that maybe things would be okay for a while. "Me too, John."
It was definitely rare, if at all, that the two ever got the chance to be alone, stripped of all barriers and colorful masks like this- completely exposed. When John wasn't off attending to some family matter, royal or otherwise, it was Paul who worked with most of his free time, carrying a magic act growing both in talent and popularity, making an income off of the thing he loved best as his father and brother ran an apothecary shop down the road.
Paul was never one to complain about his life; not as John did, anyway. Over time, throughout the droughts, bad business, shortage of money, taxes and lack of switches in social standards (His father had often jokingly remarked about saving up to buy a place within the ranks of Nobility Of The Robe), the small boy had simply learned to become grateful for what he did have - his friendship with John being among other things.
Paul had been warned by the prince himself what effects their relationship (the word had an odd taste on his tongue) could have. Were they to be caught, he said in a tone making him sound like his father more than anyone, both would undoubtedly be given punishments most severe; John would be punished harshly for “fraternizing with those of a lower class”, and Paul possibly exiled for “harassing or infiltrating Royal Property” - because to them (people who John bitterly referred to as his family, a word hardly fit for them), Property of Royalty was all the value that the young prince held.
John squeezed Paul’s hand briefly, clenching his eyes shut before they popped open, clouded over with sudden fear. “Paul, I think someone is coming.” He whispered, and his voice shook as footsteps thundered up the stairs and halted with purpose outside of Paul’s door.
Their heartbeats echoed in their ears, voices halting and breath catching, as if staying silent enough, still enough would make the intruder decide against his original intentions and retreat. Although, luck the two boys soon figured, was something for them that simply did not exist.
The moment seemed to happen in slow motion, the Time Makers’ watch sounding each tick like the somber beat of a drum.
The door opened, revealing two men clad in heavy armor, wearing each an expression of disgust as their eyes fell upon the two boys by the window, holding hands so tight out of fear that their knuckles turned white.
“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us.” One of them said while the other made his way across the room and grabbed Paul, rough hands wrapping tightly around his wrists as he pulled the small boy roughly off of the ground. Paul thrashed violently, making little grunting noises with the effort exerted as both of his arms were fastened tightly behind his back. The room was dark by now, the only dim light coming from the sun beginning to flicker from view over the distant horizon; John stood up, approaching the guard holding Paul, and seemed almost threatening as he spoke, shadow rising to the ceiling.
“Let him go!” He shouted at the men, and Paul tried once more to escape the grasp of the guard, only to be pulled back with more brute force, tightening the grip on Paul’s wrists to the point where the boy cried out. “You’re hurting him!” John shouted, desperation creeping into his voice more and more with each syllable, “let him go, now!” The prince stepped even closer to the two, but was grabbed by the waist as he tried to untie the guard’s fingers from his friends’ wrists frantically, Paul’s eyes screwing shut in pain, letting a tear roll down his cheek as he could already feel bruises forming.
“John,” He cried weakly as the Prince was being pulled away, but in a last attempt to stay near his friend, John wrapped his arms around Paul’s neck, burying his face there, twisting his expression into one of sheer pain and terror where no one could see.
The guard pulled harder, but John remained there as long as he could, fisting a hand in the back of Paul’s shirt, worn from use and thin to the touch.
“Your highness, you have no business socializing with people of this sort, nor he with you.” John screamed as with one final pull, he was torn away from Paul, the horror stricken noise reverberating throughout the room, only increasing the flow of tears from both boys.
“No! Let go of me!” He shrieked as the two were taken further and further away from each other, distance between them only increasing the anxiety and adrenaline flowing through their veins. Soon, though, the Prince was shoved roughly out the door, his yells still heard resonating all through the whole house now.
With force, Paul was thrust to the ground, tears splashing there that he could see in the glint of the newly risen moon, his head knocking hard on the cold wood; and with a curse and a kick to the boys’ ribs, he was left alone, as the guard figured to hurry in order to catch up with his counterpart, with John.
John’s cries of protest could be heard well into the night; running down the street and straight into Paul’s memory, his aching head as he curled up on the floor, nursing a rib that may have very well been broken, a heart in the same state.
They didn’t even let me say goodbye.
Paul’s face stayed pressed into the floor for the remainder of the night, the morning and well into the afternoon, getting up a single time to crawl into his bed but one foot away, eyes only closing once, though, to assure himself that all of this wasn’t merely a nightmare.
That was the last that Paul had seen of Prince John.
Pairing: John/Paul
Disclaimer: As fake as my interest in the NFL.
Summary: Would you like to see a magic trick?
"Would you care to see a magic trick, sir?" When Paul McCartney said those words, a door flew open. An alternate universe, a path down another road, it spread itself in front of him as soon as he saw Prince John.
Perhaps the peasant (he preferred "sans culotte ", thank you) shouldn't have bothered talking to such a well dressed boy riding such a well groomed horse - but John Lennon's eyes were kind as he looked upon Paul, a twinkling hazel meeting with Paul's muddy brown.
"You're a magician?" John had asked curiously, to which Paul had smiled, watching him hop with practiced ease off of his horse.
"I guess that's for you to decide, isn't it?" Paul smirked as John looked almost taken aback, before his lips turned up into a smile of his own. A playful sort of mood settled around them, whilst the two wore matching grins; as if they were old friends meeting upon pure coincidence. John spoke, then, to Paul, quite a scene to behold for people much more prejudice than he.
"Well, then, why don't you show me?"
**
The months that followed the scenario in the street, once upon a time, they were kept secret, at first only documented in the hearts and minds of those that had experienced them. John would often go to Paul, where they would soon depart to a separate world of their own, always too eager to escape together to try and find something bigger than what they were, freedom, as John liked to hope, but Paul never really understood the word, having not a clue what the opposite would be, as he lived his life without boundaries.. The two boys became close as it continued, John always dressing down to the point where he was unrecognizable in public just to make things easier; both knew that the grandiose living space in which John resided was strictly off limits, the people in it in addition to that.
"What do you think you want to do when you get older?" The sun was streaming in dull rays as the afternoon faded; the two watched it lazily through Paul's bedroom window, making an effort to keep their words quiet, as if telling secrets back and forth. The Prince had directed the inquiry at Paul as he stared longingly out of the dusty glass. Paul eyed him curiously as he replied.
"A real illusionist, maybe. Definitely not something boring like my father- although, I suppose I don't think about it much too often. What about you?" John's eyes didn't leave the outside, as if he could measure the exact amount of time that it took for the sun to make its' slow descent over the hills.
"I want to be free." He said softly, and the silence that fell between the two was not an awkward one, but rather one composed of sorrow, a melody of sympathy weaving through the air around them.
Unable to control the impulse from deep within his heart, on a whim, Paul reached out, closing the minuscule amount of distance between them to touch John's hair lightly, contact being quite possibly the only form of comfort he could offer the boy.
John had often talked about his life as an "all powerful heir" (a term he said with sarcasm rolling off the tip of his tongue), always putting emphasis on the fact it was much more tedious and stressful than a life of leisure.
As a joke, Paul had asked if they could switch lives for a bit. John didn't laugh.
"They plan your bloody life for you, one minute at a time, each minute infinitely more boring than the last," John said, tossing a ball up in the air, his eyes following it up and down, up and down. Paul's gaze never left the Prince in distress, pain and frustration evident in his voice, and his response seemed to sound distant even to him.
"Well, what do they plan for you?" He asked, slightly unsure of what he could possibly say, not certain if the boy simply needed a good rant or an understanding ear.
John looked at Paul then, fire in his eyes as he spoke.
"That's just it! They don't tell me half the shite that I'm going to have to deal with." He paused before continuing his voice somber, more defeated than anything else. "I do know one thing, though." Paul looked up with curiosity.
"What's that?" The Prince cringed and sighed disdainfully, tossing the ball back into the air again; up and down, up and down.
"I'm getting married, Paul." For reasons unbeknownst to the smaller boy, his heart was already on the floor before the ball could land in John's palm again.
John responded with a contented sigh as Paul continued to stroke his hair lightly, relishing in the feeling of the soft auburn beneath his calloused fingertips.
"You know," He said quietly, weighing down the world with the impact of his words, "I'm only but a boy. How can I possibly take on the responsibilities of marriage? Of a family? Of a whole damn country?" Paul frowned, taking his hand away, and John turned to him with tears stinging in the back of his eyes; Paul could feel them as if they were his own.
With a conversation bringing them well beyond their tender age, John spoke again, not fully expecting a response, but not especially caring either way.
"I'm scared, Paul." These were the words, the only words that Paul wasn't expecting- for the amount of time he had known John, with all the misadventures (never lacking in chaos) that they took together, the small boy had never known a boy existed outside of the witty and sarcastic facade he put up to hide an apparently, scared lost and trapped child; and children, it's really what they were, building a friendship from dust of forbidden ground- a healthy one, one perhaps they needed to keep each other sane, but a doomed one none the less.
"I know," Paul said, lightly taking the Prince's hand in his own, then, and with the action, the two of them thought that maybe things would be okay for a while. "Me too, John."
It was definitely rare, if at all, that the two ever got the chance to be alone, stripped of all barriers and colorful masks like this- completely exposed. When John wasn't off attending to some family matter, royal or otherwise, it was Paul who worked with most of his free time, carrying a magic act growing both in talent and popularity, making an income off of the thing he loved best as his father and brother ran an apothecary shop down the road.
Paul was never one to complain about his life; not as John did, anyway. Over time, throughout the droughts, bad business, shortage of money, taxes and lack of switches in social standards (His father had often jokingly remarked about saving up to buy a place within the ranks of Nobility Of The Robe), the small boy had simply learned to become grateful for what he did have - his friendship with John being among other things.
Paul had been warned by the prince himself what effects their relationship (the word had an odd taste on his tongue) could have. Were they to be caught, he said in a tone making him sound like his father more than anyone, both would undoubtedly be given punishments most severe; John would be punished harshly for “fraternizing with those of a lower class”, and Paul possibly exiled for “harassing or infiltrating Royal Property” - because to them (people who John bitterly referred to as his family, a word hardly fit for them), Property of Royalty was all the value that the young prince held.
John squeezed Paul’s hand briefly, clenching his eyes shut before they popped open, clouded over with sudden fear. “Paul, I think someone is coming.” He whispered, and his voice shook as footsteps thundered up the stairs and halted with purpose outside of Paul’s door.
Their heartbeats echoed in their ears, voices halting and breath catching, as if staying silent enough, still enough would make the intruder decide against his original intentions and retreat. Although, luck the two boys soon figured, was something for them that simply did not exist.
The moment seemed to happen in slow motion, the Time Makers’ watch sounding each tick like the somber beat of a drum.
The door opened, revealing two men clad in heavy armor, wearing each an expression of disgust as their eyes fell upon the two boys by the window, holding hands so tight out of fear that their knuckles turned white.
“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us.” One of them said while the other made his way across the room and grabbed Paul, rough hands wrapping tightly around his wrists as he pulled the small boy roughly off of the ground. Paul thrashed violently, making little grunting noises with the effort exerted as both of his arms were fastened tightly behind his back. The room was dark by now, the only dim light coming from the sun beginning to flicker from view over the distant horizon; John stood up, approaching the guard holding Paul, and seemed almost threatening as he spoke, shadow rising to the ceiling.
“Let him go!” He shouted at the men, and Paul tried once more to escape the grasp of the guard, only to be pulled back with more brute force, tightening the grip on Paul’s wrists to the point where the boy cried out. “You’re hurting him!” John shouted, desperation creeping into his voice more and more with each syllable, “let him go, now!” The prince stepped even closer to the two, but was grabbed by the waist as he tried to untie the guard’s fingers from his friends’ wrists frantically, Paul’s eyes screwing shut in pain, letting a tear roll down his cheek as he could already feel bruises forming.
“John,” He cried weakly as the Prince was being pulled away, but in a last attempt to stay near his friend, John wrapped his arms around Paul’s neck, burying his face there, twisting his expression into one of sheer pain and terror where no one could see.
The guard pulled harder, but John remained there as long as he could, fisting a hand in the back of Paul’s shirt, worn from use and thin to the touch.
“Your highness, you have no business socializing with people of this sort, nor he with you.” John screamed as with one final pull, he was torn away from Paul, the horror stricken noise reverberating throughout the room, only increasing the flow of tears from both boys.
“No! Let go of me!” He shrieked as the two were taken further and further away from each other, distance between them only increasing the anxiety and adrenaline flowing through their veins. Soon, though, the Prince was shoved roughly out the door, his yells still heard resonating all through the whole house now.
With force, Paul was thrust to the ground, tears splashing there that he could see in the glint of the newly risen moon, his head knocking hard on the cold wood; and with a curse and a kick to the boys’ ribs, he was left alone, as the guard figured to hurry in order to catch up with his counterpart, with John.
John’s cries of protest could be heard well into the night; running down the street and straight into Paul’s memory, his aching head as he curled up on the floor, nursing a rib that may have very well been broken, a heart in the same state.
They didn’t even let me say goodbye.
Paul’s face stayed pressed into the floor for the remainder of the night, the morning and well into the afternoon, getting up a single time to crawl into his bed but one foot away, eyes only closing once, though, to assure himself that all of this wasn’t merely a nightmare.
That was the last that Paul had seen of Prince John.