all we need is music, sweet music
Title: From Prince to Pauper; Part 3
Author: xxinlovebutlazy
Rating: NC-17; PG-13
Pairing(s): John/Paul; George/Ringo; John/George if you squint
Timeframe: Medieval Times [Still no Ye Olde English]
Warnings: (Italicized applies to this chapter) Sex, Language, Forceful Situations, Angst, Violence, Alcohol Use
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As in: I made this all up.
Summary: Our Prince has given up a life of luxury to be with the cheeky commoner- Ups and downs quickly come to visit. Sequel to The Prince and The Pauper.
Author's Note:
Part 1 • Part Two
Just a little historical note on this chapter: Fairs back then were mostly for the selling of livestock, though was also much like carnival, just minus the rides. Enjoy!
---
John had a day off.
An honest-to-goodness day off.
A free day to do whatever he wants, be wherever he wants, do anything whenever he wants.
And there he was, sitting at the kitchen table with the town newsletter in his hand.
Paul sat across from him silently steaming, wringing the towel in his hands. Paul had gotten over his fever fast, and a sudden mound of unused energy pushed on his chest, begging to do something other than sitting around. Other than this.
"John," Paul growled, setting down the wrinkled, mangled towel, "Let's go somewhere."
"Hm?" John replied offhandedly.
"I gotta get out."
"It's my fucking day off, McCartney. Can't I spend it the way I want?" John shot back, looking up to pierce him with glare. Paul huffed, crossing his arms defiantly. He sat back in his chair, heels hitting against the wooden legs rhythmically.
"John," Paul tried again, "Something just came to mind." His pout morphed into a solemn expression, mouth hanging open slightly. He sat forward, perching his elbows onto the table. John picked up his cup of tea, lifting it to his lips while raising his brows in curiousity. "I can't give you children."
The tea spilled out of his cup, a mixture of herbs and saliva falling onto the newsletter and the hardwood floor. John wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, hacking violently.
"I have to clean that up now!" Paul whined, groaning, "Bastard!"
"What are you doing bringing up such a stupid topic anyways? Bloody hell, Paul!" John shook his head, exhaling shakily. "Who told you I want kids anyways?"
"I want kids." Paul mumbled under his breath. He could practically hear the pitterpatter of tiny feet hitting the ground, the excited gurgles ringing throughout the rooms. A little tyke to read to, hold, and smile with. A child who wouldn't judge you.
"I can't stands kids," John muttered, picking up his paper again, "All they do is cry and piss and suck your money dry."
"Money's not important, John. A little kid is such a wonder; can you imagine a sweet boy or girl clinging to your leg faithfully, believe in everything you say, and look up to you?" The dreamy quip was borderline cheesy, but Paul's eyes were as sincere as they get.
"Get a dog, Paul." John retorted, "Or change the subject." Paul had huffed again, stood up, and snatched the nearest rag with the previous grimace plastered onto his face. He kneeled down next to John, getting onto his knees to wipe up the small puddles of tea on the wood. He felt something light brush the top of his head, feathering his hair. Paul peeked up, meeting the sober gaze of John. He twirled his hair affectionately, smoothing back any stray strands. Paul perched his arms on John's knees, staring up at him through thick lashes.
A finger trailed down the side of his face, stroking his cheek lovingly. It was that gentle touch again, the one John reserved for tender moments like these. Those calloused fingers became lighter than air, binding the reciever to the hand. Was that how he got all the girls? Through that touch? Or was it only Paul?
"'ey John," Paul breathed, making no move to cease those nimble fingers, "How do you like your girls?" The contact stopped, taking it's joy with it.
"My girls?" John repeated, weighing the words in mouth, "I like 'em blond. With big tits, and skinny stomachs. I won't have 'em any other way." John grinned, his hands back at chest-level, cupping him suggestively. He grinned, as if some pleasant memory resurfaced upon hearing the word "tits".
Paul blinked, comparisions shooting off in his head.
I like 'em blond.
Paul tugged at his own dark locks, squinting to spy a stray golden hair. But those chocolate tendrils remained the same, and suddenly seemed to lose all sheen.
With big tits,
Looking down at his chest, Paul knew what to expect straightaway. There was definitely no way he'd grow a pair any time soon.
and skinny stomachs.
He poked at his own stomach, wincing as his finger met soft meat. It wasn't much- But enough to lose to John's standards.
John must've been looking upon Paul's self-examination, because when he looked up, John was was rolling his eyes dramatically.
"What?" Paul squeaked, crossing his arms feeling awfully self-concious.
"You asked me how I liked my girls," John said, "Not my boys." He pulled the boy up onto his lap, resting his chin on his shoulder. "With a girl, you're limited. They hate changing it up. For example," John's hand slipped under Paul's shirt, sending chills down the latter's spine. His thumb rubbed the ickle nipple in circles, grinning slyly as it hardened under his touch, "Cyn would never let me do that."
Paul blushed, chewing on his lower to supress a moan. A wave of arousal eased into his lower stomach, causing him to squirm uneasily. "And if you thought she'd let me take her up the ass, you're wrong. I had to take her like a right woman every time. It's boring." His hand pulled out from under Paul's shirt, fingertips trailing down the bare torso before leaving altogether.
"I like my boys with soft dark hair, big beautiful brown eyes, and pouty lips. Those are the best." His smiled cheekily, perversely enjoying Paul's blushes and fidgeting. His lips met Paul's, melting together instantaneously and slanting at just the right angles. As Paul released a throaty moan, John took the opprotunity to slip his tongue into the warm mouth. It swiped against his teeth, procuring a soft whimper from the boy, who began to claw at his chest for a grip.
John pulled out, amused at Paul's clumsy attempts to meet his lips again. John ran a hand through Paul's hair, snapping him back into reality. "Isn't that right, Paul?"
He turned his head sharply, glowering at something past him. Crossing his arms again, he barked, "How would I know?" As John chuckled, the newsletter he was so enthralled with caught Paul's eye. There, right across the top, it wrote:
NOTTS FAIR TODAY, MAY 9TH
Paul grabbed at the paper, rereading the bold words again. He looked back at John, narrowing his eyes, "You didn't tell me about this." He said it more as an accusation rather than a question, upper lip twitching dangerously.
"Well-"
"We're going."
"Dammit."
Colors tainted the town square, booze clung to the air, and constant laughter and chatter rang out. There were jesters and minstrels, jousting and contests. Everything from archery to just getting drunk to culturally diverse dancing was covered in this quirky fair. It was certainly unlike any Paul seen, though he'd tell you it wasn't his cup of tea.
Another jester dressed in dyed samite pranced around Paul, making obscene noises and cracking cheesy jokes to make the boy smile. He had feigned contentment, if only to make the annoying runt go away. Perhaps staying home was better than this.
As he walked through the crowds, he was brought back to the age of eight, where the castle would host a hustling, bustling, lively fair organized by the Queen Mary at random intervals of the year. It was all so much... brighter, lighthearted, and innocent, much like his mother. She'd pass Michael to a friend, hike up her skirts, and take Paul by the hand and play with him, whether it'd be to participate in a competition or simply to just fool around. He remembered his father being happy, too. He'd drink his wine and look upon the two with a genuine, then-common smile. The fair was so much more fun with his mother there; here, it was too... Too not Mary.
John, on the other hand, simply enjoyed it. He'd laugh it up with anyone he happened to recognize, have a few pints of ale, and drag Paul to any show that caught his eye. There was a group of children watching a puppet show, and John was one of them, staring at the animated cloth dolls intently. 'Did you see that Paul?' 'Oh fuck, he's getting it now!' 'Safe? Safe! Lucky bastard.' 'Goddammit, you bloody idiot, there's a fucking- Aw, you moron! Listen to me!'
John had to be herded out at one point, but it was all in good fun. Can't say the parents would tell you the same.
Paul was cradeling a crêpe with sugar on top by the time John was on his fourth beer and taking his hand at archery. The alcohol and his senses didn't agree, sending the wooden arrows zooming over the target. John laughed regardless, clapping the twitchy attendant on the back heartily. As he sauntered back over to Paul, slinging an arm over his shoulder, grinning lazily.
"You haven't done anything all day, Paul," John pointed out, poking his cheek, "You're the one who wanted to come here, y'know."
"I know." Paul swatted his hand away, taking a nibble on his crêpe, "It's not what I expected." He looked over at a herd of sheep with their owner, who was crying out different amounts for each sheep. There was a single black one, he noticed. "Is this your first fair, John?"
"Hm." John scratched the back of his head unsurely, "Uncle George brought me out to the castle for a few of 'em. After he died, Mimi forbade me from going, and me mum would have to talk my way out of the house. Been to them a fair amount of times, yeh."
"My mum hosted those, y'know. Those castle ones," Paul piped up, diverting his attention from the sheep, "They were awful fun. She had great taste in everything." Paul sounded an awful lot like a parent gushing about their children to the neighbors, speaking of their lastest greatest achievements. "She was the one that kept everything in line. From the food to the jests, it was all covered by her. My mother."
"Mm." John dismissed, motioning for a passing attendant to give him a glass of gin. A hurt look appeared on Paul's face, the corner of his lips falling slowly. He took an aggravated bite of his crêpe, wiping at the sugar on his lips with the back of his hand. If John didn't care, then fine. That was just fine. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and Paul looked up, half-expecting John to apologize to console him.
"Oi, is that...?"
~•~•~•~•~•~•~
George was never this excited in his life.
He expected fun things at the fair. He expected songs, jests, and food. He expected some sort of entertainment.
But he didn't expect this.
Having never been to a fair himself, finding himself in this strange festival was like a childhood dream unfolded. The colors, the activity, the adrenaline- And the colors! George had no idea that the world could be so chromatic! He had dragged poor Richard to each and every attraction, tasted every individual sweet (who know almond milk was so good?), and made sure he got his share of prizes from the games.
Richard seemed to enjoying his pint of gin whilst following around the boy. It was really quite endearing to see him run around like a fickle six year old at Christmastime. His cheeks had a pink tint to them, a permanent smile on his face, and the energy to put a toddler on a marzipan high to shame.
By the time George had settled down, the fair was only half way over with the sun still out. He was licking some custard off his lithe fingers, and petting the livestock he passed by. His brown eyes were brimming with sparks as they darted from person to person, as if expecting another spontaneous delight to come out of this fair.
"Hey, Geo," Richard beckoned the boy back to his mind, "You feelin' good?" George's attentive eyes darted to Richard's, pulling a sticky finger out of his mouth.
"Yeh, yeh," George nodded a bit too eagerly, "I'm not sick."
"I mean, how's the fair?" It was quite obvious that George's concious was elsewhere.
"Fantastic." He uttered breathlessly, turning to face Richard, "Did we have fairs back home? Or is it only Notting Hill? Why haven't I seen them before? I love it!" His eyes were wide and zealous, practically brimming with exhilaration. His knuckles clenched and unclenched, as if anxious to participate in another mundane activity.
"We had fairs all the time at home, Georgie. You prolly didn't notice," He patted the boy on the head, "So busy with your horses and writing, maybe." George shrugged, chewing his lower lip in uncertainty. No, he definitely remembered those fairs- They were held right outside his door. He could remember being too afraid to step out and meet that man from before. Too afraid to even make eye contact with another person.
He raised his eyes up again, scanning the crowd. Since when did he get do comfortable around so many people? They were brushing against him, speaking to and around him, and surrounding him. Why was he not suffocating? Why was he speaking?
A sharp profile caught his eye; one with a curved nose and parted lips, his arm slung around a boy with softer features. One with a pert nose, curled lashes, and an unpleasant frown. The first one was looking towards him- Pointing even.
George gasped, holding Richard's wrist tightly.
He found his reason why.
When Paul saw someone barrel into John's arms, he shouldn't have been surprised, especially when Richard trailed not so far behind. George was buried in John's chest, clutching his shirt firmly. John had chuckled, and nestled his nose in his ruffled hair, rubbing the nape of his neck lovingly.
A bitter taste sprung onto Paul's tongue, replacing the sweet confection from before. It was an uncalled for envy, but a strong one nonetheless. He averted his eyes away from the two, turning towards Richard, smiling softly.
"Hello, Richard," Paul crooned, "How are you?"
"Nothin' new, really," Richard's glance towards John and George did not go unnoticed by Paul, "'Cept for moving here and the likes. Fancy seeing you two here!"
"That is quite the coincidence," Irritation replaced the jealousy at the sight of the two still holding onto each other, "You live nearby?"
"Just a 15 minute walk here, actually. We live pretty close to the square," Richard nodded lazily.
"Convenient." Paul said through gritted teeth as the two finally broke apart. John had a stupid, lopsided, dreamy, unforgivably sexy smile on his face, which frustrated Paul even further. Must he look attractive after that?
"Paul!" George's voice had an excited tremble to it, and a grin to match, "How are you, mate?"
"Fine, y'know... Fine," Paul mumbled more to the ground than to George. He felt stupid for letting that harmless embrace get to him, especially when it was just sweet George, "You?"
"I'm so happy," He sounded so out-of-breath, it almost made Paul feel guilty, "I thought the town was great already, and... And then you two show up! I'm very happy, Paul." Was it even possible for that smile to get any wider?
"That's gr-"
"Good news! Where do you live?" John interrupted, reeling Paul's frustration again.
After a quick address exchange paired with a promise to meet later, the boys parted, taking on their own paths. Paul and John spent the rest of the day wandering around in silence, Paul tending to his emotions while John tended to whatever drunken haze was splayed over his muddled mind. The sun had set, the farmers were packing up, and the moon was shining brighter as the night sky got darker. The stars soon spread across the sky, each it's own unreachable jewel. The breeze had picked up, splattering Paul's arms with goosebumps.
"So," Paul began tentatively, "You didn't want to spend the day with George?" They had sat down, Paul making sure they were a fair distance apart.
"Huh?" John raised his brows, "We can see each other later, can't we?"
"We can." Paul responded bluntly. His lower lip began to quiver, teeth clattering softly.
"Well then," John said, "I'd rather spend my day with you anyways." Paul looked over at John, who was gazing up at the sky peacefully. He looked awful warm and inviting- Maybe Paul would get over this one tiff.
He scooted into John's side, relaxing as his arm squeezed his shoulders comfortingly. He laid his cheek on John's shoulder, falling victim to his natural spell.
"How much do you love me, John?" Paul whispered, voice being taken away with the wind.
"Well, if it was my choice," John began solemnly, "I'd fuck you every damn night till you would forget your own name, my dear McCartney." A slow, easy grin played across John's lips, as he nuzzled Paul's cheek teasingly. He felt his face grow hot and pushed at John's chest.
"Shove off," Paul grumbled, trying to release himself. It was a lost cause, really, for John's strength quickly dominated his. He went limp in his arms, declaring defeat. "You pig."
John chuckled, amused by his reaction. He pecked that feverish cheek, and smoothed out the feathered locks curling at Paul's forehead. A comforting silence settled between the two, each one contemplating something different.
"John, what do you work as?" Paul asked, eyes slowly drooping with a sudden exhaustion. "I never asked you."
"Construction. Odd jobs. Whatever's out there for me," John replied gruffy, scratching at his nose uneasily.
"How much money do you earn?" The words blurred into each other as Paul's muscles unwinded and his neck went limp.
"Go to sleep. I'll carry you home." John whispered soothingly, rubbing his shoulder.
"Answer first." Though he had asked, his body was against him. His eyes shut, lips parted, and limbs relaxed. He could vaguely remember being carried home, his nose pressed against John's scent. He could recall the leather mattress under him, and that final goodnight kiss. What he couldn't recall was John's answer.
---
Minor drama next chapter?
Author: xxinlovebutlazy
Rating: NC-17; PG-13
Pairing(s): John/Paul; George/Ringo; John/George if you squint
Timeframe: Medieval Times [Still no Ye Olde English]
Warnings: (Italicized applies to this chapter) Sex, Language, Forceful Situations, Angst, Violence, Alcohol Use
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As in: I made this all up.
Summary: Our Prince has given up a life of luxury to be with the cheeky commoner- Ups and downs quickly come to visit. Sequel to The Prince and The Pauper.
Author's Note:
Part 1 • Part Two
Just a little historical note on this chapter: Fairs back then were mostly for the selling of livestock, though was also much like carnival, just minus the rides. Enjoy!
---
John had a day off.
An honest-to-goodness day off.
A free day to do whatever he wants, be wherever he wants, do anything whenever he wants.
And there he was, sitting at the kitchen table with the town newsletter in his hand.
Paul sat across from him silently steaming, wringing the towel in his hands. Paul had gotten over his fever fast, and a sudden mound of unused energy pushed on his chest, begging to do something other than sitting around. Other than this.
"John," Paul growled, setting down the wrinkled, mangled towel, "Let's go somewhere."
"Hm?" John replied offhandedly.
"I gotta get out."
"It's my fucking day off, McCartney. Can't I spend it the way I want?" John shot back, looking up to pierce him with glare. Paul huffed, crossing his arms defiantly. He sat back in his chair, heels hitting against the wooden legs rhythmically.
"John," Paul tried again, "Something just came to mind." His pout morphed into a solemn expression, mouth hanging open slightly. He sat forward, perching his elbows onto the table. John picked up his cup of tea, lifting it to his lips while raising his brows in curiousity. "I can't give you children."
The tea spilled out of his cup, a mixture of herbs and saliva falling onto the newsletter and the hardwood floor. John wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, hacking violently.
"I have to clean that up now!" Paul whined, groaning, "Bastard!"
"What are you doing bringing up such a stupid topic anyways? Bloody hell, Paul!" John shook his head, exhaling shakily. "Who told you I want kids anyways?"
"I want kids." Paul mumbled under his breath. He could practically hear the pitterpatter of tiny feet hitting the ground, the excited gurgles ringing throughout the rooms. A little tyke to read to, hold, and smile with. A child who wouldn't judge you.
"I can't stands kids," John muttered, picking up his paper again, "All they do is cry and piss and suck your money dry."
"Money's not important, John. A little kid is such a wonder; can you imagine a sweet boy or girl clinging to your leg faithfully, believe in everything you say, and look up to you?" The dreamy quip was borderline cheesy, but Paul's eyes were as sincere as they get.
"Get a dog, Paul." John retorted, "Or change the subject." Paul had huffed again, stood up, and snatched the nearest rag with the previous grimace plastered onto his face. He kneeled down next to John, getting onto his knees to wipe up the small puddles of tea on the wood. He felt something light brush the top of his head, feathering his hair. Paul peeked up, meeting the sober gaze of John. He twirled his hair affectionately, smoothing back any stray strands. Paul perched his arms on John's knees, staring up at him through thick lashes.
A finger trailed down the side of his face, stroking his cheek lovingly. It was that gentle touch again, the one John reserved for tender moments like these. Those calloused fingers became lighter than air, binding the reciever to the hand. Was that how he got all the girls? Through that touch? Or was it only Paul?
"'ey John," Paul breathed, making no move to cease those nimble fingers, "How do you like your girls?" The contact stopped, taking it's joy with it.
"My girls?" John repeated, weighing the words in mouth, "I like 'em blond. With big tits, and skinny stomachs. I won't have 'em any other way." John grinned, his hands back at chest-level, cupping him suggestively. He grinned, as if some pleasant memory resurfaced upon hearing the word "tits".
Paul blinked, comparisions shooting off in his head.
I like 'em blond.
Paul tugged at his own dark locks, squinting to spy a stray golden hair. But those chocolate tendrils remained the same, and suddenly seemed to lose all sheen.
With big tits,
Looking down at his chest, Paul knew what to expect straightaway. There was definitely no way he'd grow a pair any time soon.
and skinny stomachs.
He poked at his own stomach, wincing as his finger met soft meat. It wasn't much- But enough to lose to John's standards.
John must've been looking upon Paul's self-examination, because when he looked up, John was was rolling his eyes dramatically.
"What?" Paul squeaked, crossing his arms feeling awfully self-concious.
"You asked me how I liked my girls," John said, "Not my boys." He pulled the boy up onto his lap, resting his chin on his shoulder. "With a girl, you're limited. They hate changing it up. For example," John's hand slipped under Paul's shirt, sending chills down the latter's spine. His thumb rubbed the ickle nipple in circles, grinning slyly as it hardened under his touch, "Cyn would never let me do that."
Paul blushed, chewing on his lower to supress a moan. A wave of arousal eased into his lower stomach, causing him to squirm uneasily. "And if you thought she'd let me take her up the ass, you're wrong. I had to take her like a right woman every time. It's boring." His hand pulled out from under Paul's shirt, fingertips trailing down the bare torso before leaving altogether.
"I like my boys with soft dark hair, big beautiful brown eyes, and pouty lips. Those are the best." His smiled cheekily, perversely enjoying Paul's blushes and fidgeting. His lips met Paul's, melting together instantaneously and slanting at just the right angles. As Paul released a throaty moan, John took the opprotunity to slip his tongue into the warm mouth. It swiped against his teeth, procuring a soft whimper from the boy, who began to claw at his chest for a grip.
John pulled out, amused at Paul's clumsy attempts to meet his lips again. John ran a hand through Paul's hair, snapping him back into reality. "Isn't that right, Paul?"
He turned his head sharply, glowering at something past him. Crossing his arms again, he barked, "How would I know?" As John chuckled, the newsletter he was so enthralled with caught Paul's eye. There, right across the top, it wrote:
NOTTS FAIR TODAY, MAY 9TH
Paul grabbed at the paper, rereading the bold words again. He looked back at John, narrowing his eyes, "You didn't tell me about this." He said it more as an accusation rather than a question, upper lip twitching dangerously.
"Well-"
"We're going."
"Dammit."
Colors tainted the town square, booze clung to the air, and constant laughter and chatter rang out. There were jesters and minstrels, jousting and contests. Everything from archery to just getting drunk to culturally diverse dancing was covered in this quirky fair. It was certainly unlike any Paul seen, though he'd tell you it wasn't his cup of tea.
Another jester dressed in dyed samite pranced around Paul, making obscene noises and cracking cheesy jokes to make the boy smile. He had feigned contentment, if only to make the annoying runt go away. Perhaps staying home was better than this.
As he walked through the crowds, he was brought back to the age of eight, where the castle would host a hustling, bustling, lively fair organized by the Queen Mary at random intervals of the year. It was all so much... brighter, lighthearted, and innocent, much like his mother. She'd pass Michael to a friend, hike up her skirts, and take Paul by the hand and play with him, whether it'd be to participate in a competition or simply to just fool around. He remembered his father being happy, too. He'd drink his wine and look upon the two with a genuine, then-common smile. The fair was so much more fun with his mother there; here, it was too... Too not Mary.
John, on the other hand, simply enjoyed it. He'd laugh it up with anyone he happened to recognize, have a few pints of ale, and drag Paul to any show that caught his eye. There was a group of children watching a puppet show, and John was one of them, staring at the animated cloth dolls intently. 'Did you see that Paul?' 'Oh fuck, he's getting it now!' 'Safe? Safe! Lucky bastard.' 'Goddammit, you bloody idiot, there's a fucking- Aw, you moron! Listen to me!'
John had to be herded out at one point, but it was all in good fun. Can't say the parents would tell you the same.
Paul was cradeling a crêpe with sugar on top by the time John was on his fourth beer and taking his hand at archery. The alcohol and his senses didn't agree, sending the wooden arrows zooming over the target. John laughed regardless, clapping the twitchy attendant on the back heartily. As he sauntered back over to Paul, slinging an arm over his shoulder, grinning lazily.
"You haven't done anything all day, Paul," John pointed out, poking his cheek, "You're the one who wanted to come here, y'know."
"I know." Paul swatted his hand away, taking a nibble on his crêpe, "It's not what I expected." He looked over at a herd of sheep with their owner, who was crying out different amounts for each sheep. There was a single black one, he noticed. "Is this your first fair, John?"
"Hm." John scratched the back of his head unsurely, "Uncle George brought me out to the castle for a few of 'em. After he died, Mimi forbade me from going, and me mum would have to talk my way out of the house. Been to them a fair amount of times, yeh."
"My mum hosted those, y'know. Those castle ones," Paul piped up, diverting his attention from the sheep, "They were awful fun. She had great taste in everything." Paul sounded an awful lot like a parent gushing about their children to the neighbors, speaking of their lastest greatest achievements. "She was the one that kept everything in line. From the food to the jests, it was all covered by her. My mother."
"Mm." John dismissed, motioning for a passing attendant to give him a glass of gin. A hurt look appeared on Paul's face, the corner of his lips falling slowly. He took an aggravated bite of his crêpe, wiping at the sugar on his lips with the back of his hand. If John didn't care, then fine. That was just fine. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and Paul looked up, half-expecting John to apologize to console him.
"Oi, is that...?"
~•~•~•~•~•~•~
George was never this excited in his life.
He expected fun things at the fair. He expected songs, jests, and food. He expected some sort of entertainment.
But he didn't expect this.
Having never been to a fair himself, finding himself in this strange festival was like a childhood dream unfolded. The colors, the activity, the adrenaline- And the colors! George had no idea that the world could be so chromatic! He had dragged poor Richard to each and every attraction, tasted every individual sweet (who know almond milk was so good?), and made sure he got his share of prizes from the games.
Richard seemed to enjoying his pint of gin whilst following around the boy. It was really quite endearing to see him run around like a fickle six year old at Christmastime. His cheeks had a pink tint to them, a permanent smile on his face, and the energy to put a toddler on a marzipan high to shame.
By the time George had settled down, the fair was only half way over with the sun still out. He was licking some custard off his lithe fingers, and petting the livestock he passed by. His brown eyes were brimming with sparks as they darted from person to person, as if expecting another spontaneous delight to come out of this fair.
"Hey, Geo," Richard beckoned the boy back to his mind, "You feelin' good?" George's attentive eyes darted to Richard's, pulling a sticky finger out of his mouth.
"Yeh, yeh," George nodded a bit too eagerly, "I'm not sick."
"I mean, how's the fair?" It was quite obvious that George's concious was elsewhere.
"Fantastic." He uttered breathlessly, turning to face Richard, "Did we have fairs back home? Or is it only Notting Hill? Why haven't I seen them before? I love it!" His eyes were wide and zealous, practically brimming with exhilaration. His knuckles clenched and unclenched, as if anxious to participate in another mundane activity.
"We had fairs all the time at home, Georgie. You prolly didn't notice," He patted the boy on the head, "So busy with your horses and writing, maybe." George shrugged, chewing his lower lip in uncertainty. No, he definitely remembered those fairs- They were held right outside his door. He could remember being too afraid to step out and meet that man from before. Too afraid to even make eye contact with another person.
He raised his eyes up again, scanning the crowd. Since when did he get do comfortable around so many people? They were brushing against him, speaking to and around him, and surrounding him. Why was he not suffocating? Why was he speaking?
A sharp profile caught his eye; one with a curved nose and parted lips, his arm slung around a boy with softer features. One with a pert nose, curled lashes, and an unpleasant frown. The first one was looking towards him- Pointing even.
George gasped, holding Richard's wrist tightly.
He found his reason why.
When Paul saw someone barrel into John's arms, he shouldn't have been surprised, especially when Richard trailed not so far behind. George was buried in John's chest, clutching his shirt firmly. John had chuckled, and nestled his nose in his ruffled hair, rubbing the nape of his neck lovingly.
A bitter taste sprung onto Paul's tongue, replacing the sweet confection from before. It was an uncalled for envy, but a strong one nonetheless. He averted his eyes away from the two, turning towards Richard, smiling softly.
"Hello, Richard," Paul crooned, "How are you?"
"Nothin' new, really," Richard's glance towards John and George did not go unnoticed by Paul, "'Cept for moving here and the likes. Fancy seeing you two here!"
"That is quite the coincidence," Irritation replaced the jealousy at the sight of the two still holding onto each other, "You live nearby?"
"Just a 15 minute walk here, actually. We live pretty close to the square," Richard nodded lazily.
"Convenient." Paul said through gritted teeth as the two finally broke apart. John had a stupid, lopsided, dreamy, unforgivably sexy smile on his face, which frustrated Paul even further. Must he look attractive after that?
"Paul!" George's voice had an excited tremble to it, and a grin to match, "How are you, mate?"
"Fine, y'know... Fine," Paul mumbled more to the ground than to George. He felt stupid for letting that harmless embrace get to him, especially when it was just sweet George, "You?"
"I'm so happy," He sounded so out-of-breath, it almost made Paul feel guilty, "I thought the town was great already, and... And then you two show up! I'm very happy, Paul." Was it even possible for that smile to get any wider?
"That's gr-"
"Good news! Where do you live?" John interrupted, reeling Paul's frustration again.
After a quick address exchange paired with a promise to meet later, the boys parted, taking on their own paths. Paul and John spent the rest of the day wandering around in silence, Paul tending to his emotions while John tended to whatever drunken haze was splayed over his muddled mind. The sun had set, the farmers were packing up, and the moon was shining brighter as the night sky got darker. The stars soon spread across the sky, each it's own unreachable jewel. The breeze had picked up, splattering Paul's arms with goosebumps.
"So," Paul began tentatively, "You didn't want to spend the day with George?" They had sat down, Paul making sure they were a fair distance apart.
"Huh?" John raised his brows, "We can see each other later, can't we?"
"We can." Paul responded bluntly. His lower lip began to quiver, teeth clattering softly.
"Well then," John said, "I'd rather spend my day with you anyways." Paul looked over at John, who was gazing up at the sky peacefully. He looked awful warm and inviting- Maybe Paul would get over this one tiff.
He scooted into John's side, relaxing as his arm squeezed his shoulders comfortingly. He laid his cheek on John's shoulder, falling victim to his natural spell.
"How much do you love me, John?" Paul whispered, voice being taken away with the wind.
"Well, if it was my choice," John began solemnly, "I'd fuck you every damn night till you would forget your own name, my dear McCartney." A slow, easy grin played across John's lips, as he nuzzled Paul's cheek teasingly. He felt his face grow hot and pushed at John's chest.
"Shove off," Paul grumbled, trying to release himself. It was a lost cause, really, for John's strength quickly dominated his. He went limp in his arms, declaring defeat. "You pig."
John chuckled, amused by his reaction. He pecked that feverish cheek, and smoothed out the feathered locks curling at Paul's forehead. A comforting silence settled between the two, each one contemplating something different.
"John, what do you work as?" Paul asked, eyes slowly drooping with a sudden exhaustion. "I never asked you."
"Construction. Odd jobs. Whatever's out there for me," John replied gruffy, scratching at his nose uneasily.
"How much money do you earn?" The words blurred into each other as Paul's muscles unwinded and his neck went limp.
"Go to sleep. I'll carry you home." John whispered soothingly, rubbing his shoulder.
"Answer first." Though he had asked, his body was against him. His eyes shut, lips parted, and limbs relaxed. He could vaguely remember being carried home, his nose pressed against John's scent. He could recall the leather mattress under him, and that final goodnight kiss. What he couldn't recall was John's answer.
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Minor drama next chapter?