Post by Griff on Jul 8, 2011 16:42:57 GMT 10
Title: Ugly Duckling and the Swan
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Jonathan/George
Event: AU pole vault
Words: 1571
Summary: George may have a drop of blue blood, but he's not a nobleman.
Notes: A Modern AU
-
George stepped out on the veranda, pulling at the bow tie on his tuxedo with a grimace. His hair was held in place with very expensive luxury gel and his nails had been scrubbed clean by a very dedicated manicurist his father had on call in the house. George couldn't feel any more out of place.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate fine presentation, but he knew as well as the other blue bloods back in the ballroom that being a bastard son does not a noble make. George spent so much of his life pretending to be something he wasn't that it shouldn't've been hard to pull on the elitist condescension and peer down his expansive nose at the diamond studded wrinkles of the Tortallan court. He was, after all, the newly acknowledged heir to the Lord Provost.
It was harder, though, when the part wasn't a game. No matter how often he told himself their opinions didn't matter, he felt the hackles on his neck snarling every time he caught a derisive sneer or a pandering dismissal. He wasn't 'one of them' and, therefore, he wasn't anything. Just a spotty mistake the Lord Provost decided to admit. It would've been better if the man just paid for their silence and brushed the whole mess under the rug.
George spent his whole life wanting to know what his father would think of him and now he knew. His approval was a balm on the childish vulnerabilities he grew up with, but his father's world of breeding and entitlement cut him a new one for every wound that healed. Soon, he'd have more open sores than scars.
He just wanted a father. Why did his have to come with such a high price?
It was ridiculous. He was twenty-seven years old and he wasn't even allowed to storm out of a party. For his safety, of course. His father hadn't finished vetting George's personal security team, so they were sharing his expanded team until an appropriate team was assembled. Which meant George was effectively locked in this nightmare of a gilded cage until his father decided he was finished hobnobbing. It was a thousand times worse than the long Sunday afternoons with his mother's bookclub when he was a boy.
Frustrated to the point of madness, George ripped the tie off and snapped it to the ground, peeling off his dress jacket with equal vitriol. He was almost done with the buttons on his pressed shirt when a droll voice carried across the evening air, “I'm afraid I'll have to call my guard if you're about to do something dramatic.”
Canting his shoulder, George, pulled his dress shirt out from his pants and rolled his eyes, lifting it over his head. “Watch me,” He taunted at the man's shadow. Sliding his expensive leather shoes on the marble floor, George scowled and scooped up his cufflinks and began scuffing the soles with excessive glee.
“What are you doing?” His audience asked with intrigued alarm.
“Systematically destroying my monkey suit for my own satisfaction,” George snapped. “Call it a late bout of teenage rebellion. Or an early midlife crisis. Either works.”
“And then what do you plan to do with yourself?”
“Throw myself off the balcony, climb over the stupidly overdressed hedges, sneak around the sleeping soldiers watching the servant's entrance, and go get fantastically drunk somewhere else.” He stumbled a bit as he changed feet, “Feel free to join me.”
“Are you mad?”
“No,” George snorted, “I'm common. Which means I find spending my evening in this pit of vipers much like taking a tire iron to my face.”
“I thought the world of nobility was all magic and day dreams for the common man.”
“You're a snide bitch, aren't you?” George scoffed. “I'm not bloody Cinderella. I was perfectly happy with my job before Daddy decided he was shooting blanks and needed to claim the only baby he'd ever managed to spawn, accidental or otherwise.”
“So you're the Lord Provost's son,” the man said with sudden understanding. “I thought you were younger.”
“They certainly treat me that way.”
“There is a method to their madness, you know.”
“I'm sure there is,” George sighed, tossing his cufflinks aside, “but I didn't ask for it.”
“You've obviously never faced an assassination attempt. It puts things in a certain perspective.”
“Please,” George laughed, “I've been in knife fights since I was eleven. I didn't exactly grow up in the posh neighborhood.”
Silence echoed loudly.
“I'm sorry, did I shock you? Believe it or not, plenty of people face all sorts of scary things every day without Butch and the Ninja Twins watching their back.” George wanted to make some pointed comment about his listener's personal privileges, but the man managed to stand just right against the glass doors, so all George had to go on was a trim silhouette. He wasn't fat enough to be completely useless, but his athleticism was probably entirely based on a vanity regime of personal trainers and Acai berries.
“And the guards still let you in?” The man finally replied, amusingly horrified. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he wanted to cross his arms but it would wrinkle his suit.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” George chuckled. He stretched in the cool air, white undershirt the barest protection against the growing chill. It felt fantastic. “I've got nothing but scars to suggest I'm anything but a model citizen.”
“My god, you're a bloody crimelord, aren't you?”
That was.... surprisingly insightful for a man who had more caviar than braincells.
“No,” George lied. Somewhat. Badly.
“You are!” He accused hotly, “You stab people and mug tourists and lure small children into your van with puppies!”
Incredulously, George turned and stared, lying only slightly, “I think I've stabbed a man twice, but to be fair, he stabbed me first and he was very insistent about doing it again.” He rolled up his teeshirt and showed off the impressive gash along his belly. “My mother threw an absolute fit when she sewed it up. Can you imagine what she'd do to me if I started knocking about tourists in back alleys – as if tourists came into my part of town in the first place?” He paused, “And I'm not even going to touch that last one, because I'd probably just end up punching you.”
“That's illegal,” he chuckled, “I could have you beheaded, technically.”
“Why, you the king?” George rolled his eyes.
“Yes,” King Jonathan replied smugly, giving in and crossing his arms. He dripped egotistical satisfaction.
“My God,” George gawked, “You decided I was a master criminal because I'm stripping on the balcony and we rely on you to run the bloody country
“Please,” Jonathan stepped forward with a single-minded focus and immediately invaded George’s personal space and started fussing with his hair, “I'm a figurehead. All I need to know is how to repeat the very nice press releases my cabinet writes for me.”
“Stop that!” George batted at his hands.
“You stop it, you look ridiculous!” Jon countered, grabbing his hands and yanking them down ruthlessly. “You've got cowlicks in places that are entirely unnatural. And your haircut is embarrassing to look at.”
“It's fine when it hasn't been violated by thirty different wardrobe specialists in a single evening,” George groused, “And a king with no concept of personal space.”
“Stop whining. It's not like I've jammed my hands down your pants.”
And that... was not half as horrifying an idea and George liked to think it was. “Yes, well,” He pushed the king back, running a hand through his hair and ruining all of Jon's hard work. “I think I'll be going now.”
“Over the back hedge, right?”
George blinked, “Yes. How did you-”
“I've been sneaking out of these parties since I was fifteen,” Jonathan laughed, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischievous glee. “Am I still invited?”
“You realize the entire country is going to have a heart attack as soon as your bodyguards realize you're missing.”
“Probably.”
“You're a terrible king.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Jonathan smirked, “I caught this fine looking many stripping off his clothes, earlier, but I think I'll have to get him drunk before he'll take off his pants.”
And George laughed, long and sincerely for the first time in weeks. Licking his lips as he collected himself, he grinned. “I'm not so sure about that. I really hate these pants.”
“All the more reason to make sure I'm there when they come off,” Jon said with exaggerated solemnity, “I hear the buttons on those things really need a second pair of hands.”
George turned and flipped his legs over the balcony, sliding down the trellis silently. He beamed back up towards the light, “Coming?”
Jon pulled off his clothes in a rush, leaving his shirt fluttering in the wind as he set his feet carefully on the wall and eased himself down. “Which way?” Jon asked with a drugged grin.
George shrugged, “Does it matter?”
Rating: PG-13
Couple: Jonathan/George
Event: AU pole vault
Words: 1571
Summary: George may have a drop of blue blood, but he's not a nobleman.
Notes: A Modern AU
-
George stepped out on the veranda, pulling at the bow tie on his tuxedo with a grimace. His hair was held in place with very expensive luxury gel and his nails had been scrubbed clean by a very dedicated manicurist his father had on call in the house. George couldn't feel any more out of place.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate fine presentation, but he knew as well as the other blue bloods back in the ballroom that being a bastard son does not a noble make. George spent so much of his life pretending to be something he wasn't that it shouldn't've been hard to pull on the elitist condescension and peer down his expansive nose at the diamond studded wrinkles of the Tortallan court. He was, after all, the newly acknowledged heir to the Lord Provost.
It was harder, though, when the part wasn't a game. No matter how often he told himself their opinions didn't matter, he felt the hackles on his neck snarling every time he caught a derisive sneer or a pandering dismissal. He wasn't 'one of them' and, therefore, he wasn't anything. Just a spotty mistake the Lord Provost decided to admit. It would've been better if the man just paid for their silence and brushed the whole mess under the rug.
George spent his whole life wanting to know what his father would think of him and now he knew. His approval was a balm on the childish vulnerabilities he grew up with, but his father's world of breeding and entitlement cut him a new one for every wound that healed. Soon, he'd have more open sores than scars.
He just wanted a father. Why did his have to come with such a high price?
It was ridiculous. He was twenty-seven years old and he wasn't even allowed to storm out of a party. For his safety, of course. His father hadn't finished vetting George's personal security team, so they were sharing his expanded team until an appropriate team was assembled. Which meant George was effectively locked in this nightmare of a gilded cage until his father decided he was finished hobnobbing. It was a thousand times worse than the long Sunday afternoons with his mother's bookclub when he was a boy.
Frustrated to the point of madness, George ripped the tie off and snapped it to the ground, peeling off his dress jacket with equal vitriol. He was almost done with the buttons on his pressed shirt when a droll voice carried across the evening air, “I'm afraid I'll have to call my guard if you're about to do something dramatic.”
Canting his shoulder, George, pulled his dress shirt out from his pants and rolled his eyes, lifting it over his head. “Watch me,” He taunted at the man's shadow. Sliding his expensive leather shoes on the marble floor, George scowled and scooped up his cufflinks and began scuffing the soles with excessive glee.
“What are you doing?” His audience asked with intrigued alarm.
“Systematically destroying my monkey suit for my own satisfaction,” George snapped. “Call it a late bout of teenage rebellion. Or an early midlife crisis. Either works.”
“And then what do you plan to do with yourself?”
“Throw myself off the balcony, climb over the stupidly overdressed hedges, sneak around the sleeping soldiers watching the servant's entrance, and go get fantastically drunk somewhere else.” He stumbled a bit as he changed feet, “Feel free to join me.”
“Are you mad?”
“No,” George snorted, “I'm common. Which means I find spending my evening in this pit of vipers much like taking a tire iron to my face.”
“I thought the world of nobility was all magic and day dreams for the common man.”
“You're a snide bitch, aren't you?” George scoffed. “I'm not bloody Cinderella. I was perfectly happy with my job before Daddy decided he was shooting blanks and needed to claim the only baby he'd ever managed to spawn, accidental or otherwise.”
“So you're the Lord Provost's son,” the man said with sudden understanding. “I thought you were younger.”
“They certainly treat me that way.”
“There is a method to their madness, you know.”
“I'm sure there is,” George sighed, tossing his cufflinks aside, “but I didn't ask for it.”
“You've obviously never faced an assassination attempt. It puts things in a certain perspective.”
“Please,” George laughed, “I've been in knife fights since I was eleven. I didn't exactly grow up in the posh neighborhood.”
Silence echoed loudly.
“I'm sorry, did I shock you? Believe it or not, plenty of people face all sorts of scary things every day without Butch and the Ninja Twins watching their back.” George wanted to make some pointed comment about his listener's personal privileges, but the man managed to stand just right against the glass doors, so all George had to go on was a trim silhouette. He wasn't fat enough to be completely useless, but his athleticism was probably entirely based on a vanity regime of personal trainers and Acai berries.
“And the guards still let you in?” The man finally replied, amusingly horrified. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he wanted to cross his arms but it would wrinkle his suit.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” George chuckled. He stretched in the cool air, white undershirt the barest protection against the growing chill. It felt fantastic. “I've got nothing but scars to suggest I'm anything but a model citizen.”
“My god, you're a bloody crimelord, aren't you?”
That was.... surprisingly insightful for a man who had more caviar than braincells.
“No,” George lied. Somewhat. Badly.
“You are!” He accused hotly, “You stab people and mug tourists and lure small children into your van with puppies!”
Incredulously, George turned and stared, lying only slightly, “I think I've stabbed a man twice, but to be fair, he stabbed me first and he was very insistent about doing it again.” He rolled up his teeshirt and showed off the impressive gash along his belly. “My mother threw an absolute fit when she sewed it up. Can you imagine what she'd do to me if I started knocking about tourists in back alleys – as if tourists came into my part of town in the first place?” He paused, “And I'm not even going to touch that last one, because I'd probably just end up punching you.”
“That's illegal,” he chuckled, “I could have you beheaded, technically.”
“Why, you the king?” George rolled his eyes.
“Yes,” King Jonathan replied smugly, giving in and crossing his arms. He dripped egotistical satisfaction.
“My God,” George gawked, “You decided I was a master criminal because I'm stripping on the balcony and we rely on you to run the bloody country
“Please,” Jonathan stepped forward with a single-minded focus and immediately invaded George’s personal space and started fussing with his hair, “I'm a figurehead. All I need to know is how to repeat the very nice press releases my cabinet writes for me.”
“Stop that!” George batted at his hands.
“You stop it, you look ridiculous!” Jon countered, grabbing his hands and yanking them down ruthlessly. “You've got cowlicks in places that are entirely unnatural. And your haircut is embarrassing to look at.”
“It's fine when it hasn't been violated by thirty different wardrobe specialists in a single evening,” George groused, “And a king with no concept of personal space.”
“Stop whining. It's not like I've jammed my hands down your pants.”
And that... was not half as horrifying an idea and George liked to think it was. “Yes, well,” He pushed the king back, running a hand through his hair and ruining all of Jon's hard work. “I think I'll be going now.”
“Over the back hedge, right?”
George blinked, “Yes. How did you-”
“I've been sneaking out of these parties since I was fifteen,” Jonathan laughed, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischievous glee. “Am I still invited?”
“You realize the entire country is going to have a heart attack as soon as your bodyguards realize you're missing.”
“Probably.”
“You're a terrible king.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Jonathan smirked, “I caught this fine looking many stripping off his clothes, earlier, but I think I'll have to get him drunk before he'll take off his pants.”
And George laughed, long and sincerely for the first time in weeks. Licking his lips as he collected himself, he grinned. “I'm not so sure about that. I really hate these pants.”
“All the more reason to make sure I'm there when they come off,” Jon said with exaggerated solemnity, “I hear the buttons on those things really need a second pair of hands.”
George turned and flipped his legs over the balcony, sliding down the trellis silently. He beamed back up towards the light, “Coming?”
Jon pulled off his clothes in a rush, leaving his shirt fluttering in the wind as he set his feet carefully on the wall and eased himself down. “Which way?” Jon asked with a drugged grin.
George shrugged, “Does it matter?”