The following morning the two young men left around eight o'clock as planned, washed and dressed in fresh clothes after a night's sleep in a firm but warm bed, and having finished their breakfast which was supposed to last them till lunch when they would stop again to have something to eat and stretch their legs while they horses rested, before continuing on for the rest of the journey. Yet, despite all these plans and preparations, John could not say he felt particularly well-rested or eager for the journey that lay ahead of him and struggled to keep his eyes open as the carriage rolled over the rough countryside roads, having slept only three or four hours before Miles had awoken him to tell him Paul was waiting for him for breakfast below. It had been his troubled and preoccupied mind had been the interest of his curiosity throughout the night, keeping him awake as he thought about what could worry his companion so. Yet, in spite of his endeavours, he had not managed to think of anything so far, but he was determined to find out what the issue was, the man's pensive mood doing little good to his own.

Even now, as Paul sat - like the day before - across from him, legs crossed and his book in his lap, forgotten this time as he instead took to staring out of the window to watch the scenery pass him by, he did nothing to acknowledge the other man's presence. He had barely said a word to him all day, except for a polite "good morning" and if he could pass him the milk at breakfast, being lost in his own troubling thoughts for the remaining time. At first, John had attempted to occupy himself by reading the paper, but with each passing minute the articles he was reading were becoming less and less interesting and his companion's absentmindedness thus the more annoying, ultimately leaving him with no other choice but say something of it.

"If you do plan on brooding the entire way to Paris as you have been doing so far, at least have the common decency to inform me what it is you are brooding about so I can join you," he said, and although it took a moment for him to react, Paul did eventually turn his eyes on him, a questioning frown on his brow.

"I am not brooding," he objected, but John scoffed in return.

"I have done a copious amount of it myself to know what it looks like and you have been doing nothing but since last night. Frankly, it is becoming rather irksome."

"I have already told you I do not need to share anything with you and for that I won't," Paul told him, and resolutely turned his body away from him as he picked up his book and opened it on a random page, his long elegant fingers fumbling with the pages as he pretended to read in the hope to cut himself off from John and avoid any further questions. John, however, having had enough of the lack of conversation, continued to push on nonetheless.

"Is your father involved?" he asked, shuffling forward in his seat as he awaited an answer, allowing a grin to emerge as he watched a look of utter shock and outrage appear on the man's face, his eyes growing wide at the insinuation. Clearly, he had struck a nerve.

"I don't... I would suggest you change your tone, Mr. Lennon, and drop the subject. I refuse to indulge you in anything when you have the audacity to make such ridiculous speculations and I most certainly do not plan to tell you anything and that's the end of it,' he said, shooting him one last heated look before turning back to his book, his expression cold as his eyes slid over the page at too quick a pace for him to be reading.

"But I am correct, aren't I?" John pressed on. When Paul did not answer, he let out a deep sigh and decided to approach it from a different direction, knowing he would continue to refuse him any answers no matter how hard he tried if he continued his prying. So, for the moment, he let the subject of Paul's troubles pass, leaving it to rest to be picked up again at a later moment when Paul would be in a better, more talkative mood, and decided on another, more neutral subject instead.

"What time do you think we'll arrive in London?" he asked plainly, and Paul glanced up at him with a calculating gaze before lowering his eyes to his book once more, turning the page in such an aggressive yet calculated manner that John thought it to be a warning of some sorts. To his luck, on the other hand, Paul indulged him with an answer.

"In time for dinner, I hope. I have made us dinner reservations, so it would be a shame to have to cancel those. Besides, our boat will be leaving tomorrow evening and it would be nice to have a day to rest and enjoy the city before we leave again. It has been a while since I've last been myself," he said as he kept his eyes on the page, his voice still tight, as if uncertain about John's true intentions with this question, but at least he was speaking to him, which John supposed was as good a sign as any. He felt relieved, at least, to know that once they were in London he would not need to get into a carriage for a little while, having had quite enough of them over the last two days, his back aching from sitting in such a uncomfortable position for long periods of time, the discomfort and pain of which caused him to long to walk amongst the living once more and admire the city as any visiting person ought to, hopefully with Paul as his guide. The man had visited the city so often before, he had to be able to show him all he ought to see during their short visit and tell him some interesting things about the sights in question. At the thought alone, he felt his heart speed up with excitement.

"I have never been to London. I wonder what it's like," he admitted to the other man, who finally raised his eyes at him, as if he was surprised by it, the coldness having left them once more as he seemed pleased by the unexpected change of topic - at least for him.

"I could show you around if you'd like. I would not call myself an expert or anything, but I have been there often enough to know the most important sights," Paul offered right away, and John smiled thankfully as he nodded, his clear excitement causing a small amused smile to creep onto Paul's lips as well as he put his book aside to talk to John instead, leaning towards him as he folded his hands in his lap.

"I am afraid, though," he said, his smile changing into a smug grin, "that our explorations will have to wait until tomorrow, as I have planned something else that might interest you if you wish to join me. You do not have to, of course, but knowing your interest in art, I think this might appeal to you. In fact, I think I will keep it a surprise for now."

"A surprise?"

"It's when a person keeps a certain thing a secret from another person in order to heighten the feeling of pleasure and surprise when it eventually happens," Paul replied jokingly and John rolled his eyes as he feigned laughter.

"I know what a surprise is," John retorted.

"Then why are you not excited? Surprises are supposed to be exciting."

"Yes, except the pleasurable part of the surprise was often missing in my experience with them," John said and Paul visibly started at his answer, his mouth opening and closing momentarily as he thought of what to say in response, his lack of experience with such honest and forward answers rendering him, if only momentarily, speechless.

"I-I am sorry to hear that," was what came out of his mouth in the end, and he frowned, though John could not be sure whether it was out of sympathy or his own struggles with the English language, which must be strange to him, or perhaps a mixture of both. Whatever it was, John waved it away.

"Don't be. I am certain this one will be much more pleasing," he promised, if only to make the other man feel more at ease, finding it hard to believe it himself. As long as Paul did not worry about that as well, though, it was all fine with him.

***

The carriage drove into the city of London that evening around dinner time, only slightly later than Paul had preferred. The sun had lowered in the sky, painting it with deep shades of scarlet and gold as its rays shone through the many tall and close-standing buildings, creating shimmers on the cobblestone streets where men were making their way home after another day at work to be greeted there by their faithful wives for dinner and to pat their children on their heads before sending them off to bed to enjoy their evenings in quiet by themselves. Some had their wives at their sides, or children holding their hand, but most were alone, and Paul could see John watching them as he took in the city, with all its buildings and bridges and statues, illuminated by the warm but weak light of the evening sun and the streetlights that were being lit by the lamplighters, as if through magic, their poles resting on their shoulders like fire-inducing wands, as they made their way through the darkening city to light it up once more.

Paul watched the other man with interest as he took in all his excited little exclamations and reactions at what he saw, wonder in his eyes as an almost permanent smile governed his lips, which looked as charming as the rest of him and had not left since they had driven across the River Thames and alongside the Palace of Westminster, where - Paul had not been able to help but think as a cold shiver had run down his spine - Prime Minister Perceval had been assassinated not even a decade ago. John had been most intrigued as he had shared the news, and his eyes had barely left the Palace as they had driven past it, as if he could not imagine something as horrid as that had taken place somewhere so near to where he was now. Despite the man's concerning disregard for his privacy when it came to his private problems, Paul had not regretted his decision to ask him to join him on this trip and was glad he had agreed in spite of his initial surprise and logical objections, knowing he was going to enjoy showing him around London and Paris and feeling glad he was not here alone. The distraction he offered was a welcome one.

They drove further into the city, passing The Old Bailey, St. Paul's Cathedral and finally the Tower of London before they halted in front of an impressive building with two young men waiting outside in formal dress, what Paul knew and John could guess was their uniform. They acknowledged Paul with a polite nod as they watched him climb out of the coach and placed their gloved hands onto the richly embellished, gold-painted doorknob, ready to open the door for him as soon as it was required of them, as good employees ought to do. Paul, however, paid them little mind, turning instead to John whom he offered his hand to help him step out of the coach and make his way down the small set of stairs as he watched the flickers of awe and confusion on his features with amusement as he stared up at the building ahead, the frowns turning into smiles and back into frowns again numerous times in what could only have been perhaps two or three seconds.

"Miles?" Paul asked, his eyes still on his companion as he shut the door behind him, watching him take a couple of steps towards the building as he wrapped his coat a little firmer around himself to shield him from the chilly evening air, his auburn hair catching in the wind.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take our suitcases home and tell them to prepare the guest room as well before you return here. Oh, and have something quick to eat while you're there if you want. But don't be too long; I do not want to be late," Paul said, not even turning to his driver, as he instead approached the man before him and placed a guiding hand against his back, between his shoulder blades, giving him a careful smile as the older man glanced at him with a questioning look in his eyes, startled at the feeling of a firm hand on his back, steering him gently towards the two men at the door. Yet, despite this, he did not pull away and allowed him to do so, which pleased Paul more than he knew it should.

"I hope you are hungry," he said, looking away from him and up at the purple sky above as he realised he had been staring, but still, from the corner of his eye, he could see how John relaxed at the question, smiling and nodding eagerly as he looked up at the building with renewed interest and allowed Paul to guide him closer, seeming pleased with the prospect of warm food and good wine. Paul could not say he felt any different.

Dinner, although it had to be kept brief, was pleasant and relaxing, allowing the two men to fill their stomachs with elaborate dishes, prepared by one of the better chefs in London, and perhaps even in England, as they spoke to each other. John especially was greatly impressed as was easy to read from his face, even if he did attempt to hide it, and Paul felt himself so taken by the other man's reaction to it all, he was rendered incapable to deny him anything, enjoying the excited little gasps, smiles and widened eyes to the point where he found himself sharing a plate of oysters with the other man despite his own dislike for the food, only because he had told him he wondered what they tasted like. Still, the looks of intrigue and disgust as John stared down at one of the shells as he held it in his hand, considering whether what he was holding was actually edible or not, was entertaining enough to make up for it.

"If this is my first taste of France, I am not sure I have made the right choice in coming with you," John muttered as he wiggled the shell around some more, before finally putting it to his lips and cocking it back to swallow it down. Much to his surprise, however, and Paul's most certainly, his face lit up as he put the empty shell back down and took another one without a second thought, causing Paul to chuckle. He took a shell as well and forced himself to not think about the texture as he too swallowed one down, thinking it tasted rather well, except for the slimy and rubbery feel of it in his mouth. It was something he had never been able to get used to, but he would be fine as long as he had enough wine to wash it down with.

They spoke in hushed voices while they ate, not wanting to disturb the other guests with their conversations about common interests such as music, which later evolved into a discussion on art and poetry, leaving Paul - although he was embarrassed to admit it - astounded by his speech, which was not only intelligent, but even philosophical at times, revealing him to be much smarter than he had thought he was as he spoke with love of one of his favourite poets, Percy Shelley. On second thought, it was not an unexpected choice.

"He was rebellious, Paul. Ungovernable and revolutionary, never avoiding confrontation and always seeking it out, but never meeting it with violence. Instead he wrote: poems, pamphlets, essays, anything to open the minds of people. He knew what was wrong with this world, how we treat each other, how we treat animals, how wrong authority is, not to mention our oppressive rulers, especially then, profiting from the incapability of King George and this hopeless country. 'Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know, but leech-like to their fainting country cling, till they drop, blind in blood.' His words are angry. Passionate, definitely, but mostly angry. Unforgiving to whoever dares to read them," he said, smiling broadly as he spoke, almond eyes shimmering with passionate excitement and veneration for the poet from behind his glasses, but with an anger in his own voice that told Paul just how strongly he felt about the issues he raised in his works, repeating Shelley's words as if they were his own.

"That is what I would love to do," John continued with the same passion, that, Paul noticed, was entangling him, his fervent words bringing some of his passion over into his own mind as he listened to him talk. "I want to make people think and wake them up from their slumbering states. To change things."

"By writing poems?"

"Anything! Poems, music, paintings, anything. Shelley himself said 'poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.' The same goes for other artists, as well, don't you agree? Composers with their music, artists with their paintings, poets with their words." He was still smiling brightly as he looked at the man opposite him with a strange type of hunger in his gaze, eager to hear his views in the hope to meet someone with a likewise mind. His soft hair was ruffled and curled up before his eyes, and Paul only noticed now the touch of red that lay in it, shimmering as the light of the candles and gas lighting in the room hit it. His usually fair cheeks were flushed from excitement and Paul felt the need to sit back in his chair and create some distance between them as he found himself taken in by this intelligent and beautiful man, but still, even as he moved away, he could not look away from his eyes, small and finely shaped unlike his own, but with a softness in them that seemed so much unlike his talk of revolution.

"How do you feel about other poets then? Like, say Keats, for example?" Paul asked after a moment of silence as he sipped from his wine, frowning with intrigue as John for a second only grinned at his question, as if he had already hoped he would ask it.

"A rebel not in form but content, and thus all the more insidious," he said and when Paul did not respond, he explained. "His verses are pretty, carefully crafted and shaped according to tradition to create an enchanting beauty. He lures you in with pretty words and fine rhymes, and guides you through it, allowing you to sway on his metre and simply enjoy it for how it is. He appeals to people who are in want for beauty, people who do not want Shelley's biting, disagreeing words, and then he takes them by surprise with his intentions, his content, which is rebellious in its own right. Besides, he writes about those things that really matter: love and sex. He is sensual."

"Is that your Byron speaking?" Paul asked with a chuckle, feeling his temperature rise at hearing him speak so plainly about such subjects, which until now he had only ever spoken about with lovers behind locked doors in the dark, like an innermost secret no one was allowed to hear about. To hear John talk about it with such ease, it was strange, but he was unsure if he disliked it as he was supposed to.

"To a certain point," John replied with a chuckle of his own and ate another piece of bread, which he helped down with the generous sip from his own wine, finishing it. "Keats was a man in love, as only a man in love could permit himself such tender beauties."

"So you would do it too, then? Go against our kings and queens, against our parliament and lords? Against anyone in power who does not use it as they should in the interest of the country and its people?" Paul asked, intrigued by the idea, feeling an opposition arise inside him that on the one hand had fallen in love with everything John had said in the last half hour, and at the same time felt great fear of what that would mean, rebellion. Revolution. He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat as John nodded in response to his question, placing his empty glass back down on the table as he glanced up at Paul through his lashes, a calculating look in his eyes.

"I would. I do. Against anyone who abuses his power towards anyone, I would rage a war of words. After all, if poets won't do it, then who will?"

"And you consider yourself a poet, then?"

"If I find the right muse, then perhaps I might," John replied with a wink and Paul laughed again, before wiping his mouth with a napkin and standing up from his seat.

"Well, Mr. Poet, in line with your lyrical speeches, I think it is time for us to go if we do not want to be late. I have managed to arrange two tickets for the theatre this evening and having listened to your odes about your poetic heroes, I now know for certain you will enjoy it," he said as he motioned one of the waiters to come over to pay and slid his coat back on, watching from the corner of his eye as John did the same, an excited smile on his face as he repeated the word to himself.

"The theatre..."

***

John stared out of the coach as they drove further through the streets of London, accompanied by other coaches as well as many people walking on pavement, many of whom, John could hear from the small snippets of conversation he caught as they drove past them, seemed to be heading to the theatre as well. This time Paul was sitting next of him, his eyes closed and doing nothing for a moment as their thighs and shoulders occasionally rubbed together due to the wobbling of the coach, and with every touch, however slight it was, John felt his cheeks heat up in response, his attraction - because he had now finally realised that was what he was feeling towards the other man and that pretending he did not was foolish - only having grown over the last couple of days now they were spending so much of their time together.

Especially during dinner he had noticed, even more so than before, how beautiful Paul really was, thinking him even more striking as he allowed his guard down and showed him all his reactions, mannerisms and emotions without worrying about what was expected of him and what others would think if he did anything that did not agree with their expectations. Every smile he had offered him, had grown more and more genuine as the minutes had passed by, soon reaching all the way to his eyes which shone as he laughed or chuckled, the corners curling up and his cheeks rounding in a most adorable, yet handsome way. The difference between his genuine and his charming, calculated smiles was all the more obvious to him now, and he hoped he would see those genuine ones more often, the sight of it filling him with immediate joy as well, making it all the more attractive. But then again, who was he to ask such things of the other man? After all, he was nothing; a mere artist, if that, lucky enough to keep him company for now as he was offered the chance to showcase his work. He was not interesting, not beautiful, nor did he have any other qualities that would appeal to a man like Paul and that would make him think of him as anything other than his portraitist.

It was a mere ten-minute's drive to the theatre, and once John caught sight of it, he nudged Paul's side with his elbow, and pointed at it, excited for the show that awaited him, never having gone to the theatre before. Not soon after the coach halted once more to let them out.

"Thank you, Miles," John could hear Paul say behind him once they were outside, but he sounded far away as he instead looked up at the theatre building and attempted to take it all in, his view being slightly obscured by the many people who were walking in and out of it, often moving in groups or couples of two. He barely had time to look, as before he knew it, Paul had taken him by his arm and was guiding them inside, where even more people were standing and talking, waiting for the doors to open so they could take their seats. As if by perfect timing, the doors - four massive ones with stained glass at the back of the reception hall - opened just as they stepped inside, allowing the hall the empty out a little, so people could more easily stand and walk around, or even sit down on one of the sofas that had been placed along the walls but had been hidden from view by the many visitors. John, who had felt inclined to follow the masses through said doors, jerked in surprise as Paul grabbed him by the shoulder and nodded at two smaller doors at the side of the room where a couple, six or seven at the most, of wealthier-looking people stood, and who they soon joined.

"Where are in the private boxes beside the balconies," Paul whispered into his ear once he had guided them away from the cacophonous chatter and laughter of the many lower and middle class visitors, who were slowly making their way through the doors. Not long after, the side doors were opened as well and the last few people slowly made their way inside as well. John and Paul followed closely behind, and John took in the beauty of the place as they were guided through more halls and corridors and up a couple of steps until they finally reached the door that John supposed lead through to their box, and waited patiently as Paul checked the door number with something he had written down on a very small piece of paper. Once he was satisfied and certain they had the right door, he put the piece of paper back in the pocket of his trousers and opened the door before beckoning John to step in first, which he gladly did, only to gasp as he stepped into one of the upper boxes, which was richly decorated with golden ornaments, pillars, and soft gas lighting, and even the railings were painted and further decorated with golden flowers. Above them hung deep scarlet curtains that were draped around and could be drawn if so wished. There were two chairs in the middle of the small room, on both of which lay a sheet of paper with information about the play and a pair of binoculars.

"So, what do you think? Impressive, isn't it?" Paul asked as he stepped in after him and closed the door behind him. John could only nod in response and carefully picked up his binoculars before he sat down in the unexpectedly comfortable seat and leaned forward to look out onto the stage and the seats below, watching as people sat in their own seats, talking excitedly as they waited for the play to begin.

"I have always loved the theatre," Paul said as he did the same and stared down at the stage where the curtain hid the actors, the decor and the props from view. "My parents used to take me and Michael when we were younger. My father never cared too much for it, neither did my brother, but my mother and I loved every part of it. When I was old enough I always used to hang around by the stage doors, waiting until someone took pity on me and allowed me in for a tour and to watch them rehearse. Soon, everyone knew me and I was always welcome to come in and watch or help with some things if I wanted. My parents never knew about it of course."

John hummed in response as he continued to take in the beauty and wonder of the place, never having thought it would be like this or that he would be so taken in by it, and he could all too well imagine Paul's obsession with it when he had been younger, not being able to imagine how he himself would have reacted to such a place - and he had not even seen the play yet.

Finally the lights dimmed and the curtains were raised, revealing two actors, a man and a woman, dressed in the most gorgeous costumes and John could only stare as the man began to speak, his voice powerful and melodious as he followed the rhyme and metre of the words he was reciting with such skill that John felt goosebumps appear on his arms. He was a handsome young man, blonde and lean, with delicate skin and freckles on his cheeks. He had high cheekbones, and a strong jaw, yet there was something about him that made him appear slightly more feminine, and as he turned to the two of them directly, he noticed the slenderness of his neck and the fullness of his lips, which, combined with the elegance with which he was moving over the stage, caused exactly that more lady-esque quality. It was that moment too, that John realised he had to be the lead; Whitfield according to the information sheet. Apparently, he had started as a child actor with a company in Liverpool and had grown up to be one of the most talented and critically acclaimed actors of the 19th century so far and was almost religiously devoted to his career.

"For about four years I was there as often as I could, sneaking off when Father or Mother was not looking and doing chores for Michael so he would not tell on me. Some of the boys - the younger actors - tried to teach me how to act, but soon it became clear I would never be a decent actor, never mind a good one, but I did not mind. My father was not happy when he found out where I spend all of my free time, of course. It would not do for a boy from a family like ours to spend his time in the company of mere actors," Paul continued in a soft whisper, soft enough for John to ignore if he wanted to, but for some reason, he found himself intrigued by Paul's words. There was a softness to them, that John had not heard from him before. As the scene between the two lovers ended and the man was left alone on stage to do a monologue before he was joined by some other male actors, John took a moment to glance at the man beside him, and found him leaning on his railing, his head resting in his arms as he stared down at the stage with a blush on his cheeks, a tenderness in his eyes, and a very slight smallish grin that rested on his plump lips.

Curious about what had caused such a reaction from the otherwise almost stoic gentleman, John followed the line of his gaze and frowned as it landed on the lead actor, who was having a fervent quarrel with another actor, lamenting his inability to take his one love as his bride for she would be marrying someone else in a fortnight. For a moment he frowned, uncertain why he was watching him so intently, but when he glanced back at Paul and caught him sighing, his body tensed up and he was roughly drawn away from the magical environment that was surrounding them, realisation dawning upon him.

"It is always easy to fall in love with an actor when what he says was written to make every single person in the audience swoon, be they male or female," Paul whispered, his voice even softer than before, which made John wonder if he had meant for him to hear it at all.

A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates lately. I had a lot of difficulty with the fic, but eventually I managed with some help from people on tumblr and now i'm actually quite happy with how it turned out. Let's hope the next chapter won't take as long.

Also, the two quotes from Shelley are respectively from "England in 1819″ (lines 4-6) and "Defence of Poetry". The assassination of Prime Minister Spencer Perceval is something that actually took place in 1812, and he was the only British Prime Minister to have ever been assassinated, so I figured it would have a big impact on people back then.