The year is 1872, the Rogues of London move away from their hometown and out to sea in search of new adventure. However, oceans bite back, pirates are waiting, and stranger love is to be found out there.
Larry Stylinson, including all of One Direct...
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'Prettier than your Lady', 1867.
**
Land grew further away, houses became so small that they blurred together on the horizon. We left the sun there, big, glowing an orange heat in the west. As for Roxanne, Jill, Jack.. I hope that the sun warmed them, that she kept them safe, and I pray that she'll be there to great us when we return home, once more.
But as for now, we can't stop smiling, even I-the man known as a beast-can't show any pain or regret as of now. We had our adventure, I did not go as planned, and now we are returning with a new light. To an outcast, home is not a heart, home is not a place to feel safe, and those two aspects are things that we-as outcasted persons-are not gifted to have.
But on the sea, we have learned, on the foreign lands, we have learned. We have learned that home, to us, is the scent of coffee in the air. Home is the feel of copper and iron to your touch. Home is the taste of an unknown mouth pressed to yours. Home is the fight for survival, the rejection from others, the demeaning stares in the streets. Home, to us at the very least, is London. And nowhere, in the whole wide world, could feel anymore like Home than there.
And so we sing 'till sunrise, sing to the love we have shared, to the relationships we have made, and to the land that we come back to.
We sing in the silence of peace, and we all wish from the bottom of our empty hearts, that it'd last forever.
*
The Third Week. August, 6th, 1872.
Wedding bells rang on deck, cherry blossom was thrown onto the bride as she walked down the aisle, the piano played and the grand opera sang. And the married couple were to wed once more, this time, with garments of pure white; pansies, hyacinths, tulips, and roses in the bride's hands. They were to be married in a wedding hall under the sun. Married again.
Niall clanged the pans together, trying his very best to replicate the sounds of church bells like the ones he'd hear in London. His rhythm was off and sounded truly awful with the sound of the piano which Zayn played. It missed keys and was out of tune, but then again, Liam sang that way, too.
From behind, Erin tossed shredded wood that played their part as confetti, meaning that the wedded couple had to wear veils over their faces as to not be blinded by the sawdust that flew around in the air. And the Gypsy Prince stood at the altar made from a few planks of wood and fishing tackle with the mad priest by his side. He watched his bride walk down the aisle in clothes as white as torn sails could be when wrapped around a body. The Bride smiled behind her vail of fishing nets, hanging onto her best man who did not cease to take the spotlight as he winked at the pianist and waved his hand as if he were the one in the pretty white dress.
The Bride reached the pulpit and let out a high pitched squeal of excitement. The music stopped playing and the orchestra, along with the best man, stepped aside to sit beside Erin on the wine barrels that acted as seats.
