The Blue Danube [OLD]

- 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔶. ﾐ

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⠀⠀╲⠀╲⠀☆⠀ ╲⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀☆⠀╲⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ★

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀★

june 1859

Arid, yellowed grass tickled Paul's tanned skin as he laid on it, gazing up at the overhanging branches of the tree with its wide, shady leaves through half-lidded, tired eyes. Bees ambled lazily around the three people sweltering under the British summer heat, stopping occasionally to investigate the wildflowers before moving on. Patches of blazing sunlight managed to worm its way through the leaves and onto George, Ringo and Paul below; the ebony-haired boy squinted to drive a patch that had fell on his cheek out of his eyes. In the distance, he heard huffs from the horses lazing about in the shade and the bleating of sheep - sounds he'd been familiar all his life with. What would it be like to leave it all behind? To live in the city of Paris, to be away from the feel of grass under his feet, taking care of animals, tending to crops... being away from his family. Leaving them behind. He'd been reflecting on the idea for the past two weeks, almost three, since John had proposed the idea.

George and Ringo had learnt only a few days after Paul, and they were reluctant to go along with it at first. Ringo had thought the whole thing ridiculous; George was just terrified of leaving his parents and his life behind. It had been a while since then, though, and the few times they talked about it, it seemed the couple had been warming up to it more and more every time. They still hadn't confirmed with a definite 'yes' yet. 

The doe-eyed boy turned to look at his friends - George's head was rested in Ringo's lap, the latter carding his ring-adorned fingers through his lover's dark locks, sitting up against the tree trunk, both looking content, but sweating at the heat. Paul had been struggling on the farm to do the chores, trying to keep the animals cool and making sure the crops have enough water, and it seemed his stabbing scar had started giving him trouble after moving too much. It hadn't opened up, thank god, since it'd been too long since the incident and now it just gave him some pain every now and then, the muscles around it having stiffened. His friends had came to help out for a while that day, knowing that he'd need it. 

Juggling all the farm-work, their wood chopping job, and his own job at the pub playing piano, had really begun to take a toll on him. He felt like he had been worn out to a thread, barely registering what was being put in front of him, running on 4-5 hours of sleep every night, eyes sunken into dark rings and always bloodshot. He had been growing skinnier, more skinnier than he already had been all his life due to malnutrition and being overworked with little food. He could see the bones in his wrists, hands, and his ribs had grown even more visible than before. He didn't know how much more he could take before he dropped dead on his feet. The weather certainly wasn't kind, either - but it was better that it was summer than winter. The winters were cruel there, and due to not having sufficient clothing, they've been close to getting frostbite or very ill many times before. Actually, both winter and summer were equally horrible seasons to work in. He longed to at least get rid of one of them, preferably the wood chopping, but they needed every single last penny they could get their hands on.