Life's Pageant
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Casts RPF › Monty Python
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Casts RPF › Monty Python
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,699
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Monty Python. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter One
A DISCLAIMER! to keep all of us happy and safe:
M/M. Terry/Michael love story.
Warnings, warnings, warnings... starts off sweetly but rapidly deteriorates into guilt, masturbation and drug abuse. Language here and there. If you're impatient, like myself, you can skip ahead to Chapter Nine. Some Graham/Terry thrown in, some John/Michael I suppose but it's one-sided. There's also a bit of M/F (filth!), somewhere in the later chapters and there only to drive the plot forward; sorry if it offends you but rest assured it is chock full of angst.
Oh and it's not true, it's all completely false, fabricated by me, for no money at all. Note the title of the website. FICTION. The people exist though. This is based on true events, mostly, and interpreted by me.
For your reading pleasure...
Michael was a moth fluttering around the brilliant light of Oxford.
He was now in his second year, and yet, he still remained an outsider in the university. It was a huge place, a vast ground on which men played. And at its centre, its glorious centre was the hypnotic beat of the theatre.
The theatre scene was rising from the austerity of university like lava from cold earth, and Michael was helpless in its flow. He'd taken to hanging around after the smokers, to breathing in all the glamour and staring longingly at a poster in which a boy sat alone and alluring with a fag balanced between his lips. There was a great feeling of rebellion about. He wanted to be a part of it...
But he wasn't. Two years and he still wasn't. He sighed down at the ground and watched his feet rush forward and back again. His eyes closed in despair.
He'd never be part of it.
Always fluttering, hopeless, beating at the air, the wondrous air thick with whispers of change. Just another Yorkshire export. He lifted his heavy head and opened his eyes. And he saw him. The boy in the poster; he had very dark hair and very dark eyes that were like coals in a fire, he wore a long heavy black coat, he carried several books and he looked very very distressed as he hurried in the other direction. Then he suddenly looked up at Michael.
Terry knew somebody was watching him. He thought, maybe if I ignore them they'll stop - they'll look away. But they didn't. Slightly irritated, he raised his eyes to meet those of his watcher.
It was as though they'd pulled him out of Oxford and into a world where only the two wanderers existed. And his eyes were held captive. The boy looked young, though taller than him, he had hair the colour of autumn, eyes the colour of spring and so kind and beautiful a face, so fair and full of wonder. And then the boy looked away and was gone.
Throughout the next few months they exchanged the smallest of glances but neither of them said a word. They didn't raise a brow or curl the lips into a smile. It was all a dance. A mysterious dance that thrilled Terry.
Terry had been at Oxford about three years now. And he was finally going to be a writer. A writer - he was going to write and perform, his own material no less, which to him was a dream, it was more than fantastic. To be on stage was fantastic but his heart truly belonged to literature, to the written language, not to the arrogance of actors. And here was the knock of opportunity. He'd been asked to come and see a show in which some of his co-writers would be performing and quickly agreed. Nervously, as he hadn't a clue who any of them were.
But as the show progressed he suddenly realised who one of the performers was. It was... him. Terry slid forward in his seat, enraptured. They were doing some sketch about a bucket and a banana but Terry was no longer paying it any attention.
When the show ended Michael was asked to stay and meet one of the others who would be writing for the summer revue. He waited impatiently, smoothing his hair and biting his lower lip and brushing off his jacket until finally he saw a boy coming towards him. Two boys coming towards him. One of them, the first one he'd seen was his mate, Robert, and the other... his heart leapt into his throat. The boy from the poster.
"Oi! Here we are!" exclaimed Robert. He strode up to Michael and then stood aside so that the boy with coal-black eyes and Michael faced one another.
"Terry Jones, Michael Palin!"
Michael grinned. He offered his right hand and said in rather a mumble "Pleased to meet you." He couldn't help noticing the intensity flickering in the black eyes, and his own insides crawled eagerly.
Terry took his hand gently and smiled. "Pleasure's all mine."
***
M/M. Terry/Michael love story.
Warnings, warnings, warnings... starts off sweetly but rapidly deteriorates into guilt, masturbation and drug abuse. Language here and there. If you're impatient, like myself, you can skip ahead to Chapter Nine. Some Graham/Terry thrown in, some John/Michael I suppose but it's one-sided. There's also a bit of M/F (filth!), somewhere in the later chapters and there only to drive the plot forward; sorry if it offends you but rest assured it is chock full of angst.
Oh and it's not true, it's all completely false, fabricated by me, for no money at all. Note the title of the website. FICTION. The people exist though. This is based on true events, mostly, and interpreted by me.
For your reading pleasure...
Michael was a moth fluttering around the brilliant light of Oxford.
He was now in his second year, and yet, he still remained an outsider in the university. It was a huge place, a vast ground on which men played. And at its centre, its glorious centre was the hypnotic beat of the theatre.
The theatre scene was rising from the austerity of university like lava from cold earth, and Michael was helpless in its flow. He'd taken to hanging around after the smokers, to breathing in all the glamour and staring longingly at a poster in which a boy sat alone and alluring with a fag balanced between his lips. There was a great feeling of rebellion about. He wanted to be a part of it...
But he wasn't. Two years and he still wasn't. He sighed down at the ground and watched his feet rush forward and back again. His eyes closed in despair.
He'd never be part of it.
Always fluttering, hopeless, beating at the air, the wondrous air thick with whispers of change. Just another Yorkshire export. He lifted his heavy head and opened his eyes. And he saw him. The boy in the poster; he had very dark hair and very dark eyes that were like coals in a fire, he wore a long heavy black coat, he carried several books and he looked very very distressed as he hurried in the other direction. Then he suddenly looked up at Michael.
Terry knew somebody was watching him. He thought, maybe if I ignore them they'll stop - they'll look away. But they didn't. Slightly irritated, he raised his eyes to meet those of his watcher.
It was as though they'd pulled him out of Oxford and into a world where only the two wanderers existed. And his eyes were held captive. The boy looked young, though taller than him, he had hair the colour of autumn, eyes the colour of spring and so kind and beautiful a face, so fair and full of wonder. And then the boy looked away and was gone.
Throughout the next few months they exchanged the smallest of glances but neither of them said a word. They didn't raise a brow or curl the lips into a smile. It was all a dance. A mysterious dance that thrilled Terry.
Terry had been at Oxford about three years now. And he was finally going to be a writer. A writer - he was going to write and perform, his own material no less, which to him was a dream, it was more than fantastic. To be on stage was fantastic but his heart truly belonged to literature, to the written language, not to the arrogance of actors. And here was the knock of opportunity. He'd been asked to come and see a show in which some of his co-writers would be performing and quickly agreed. Nervously, as he hadn't a clue who any of them were.
But as the show progressed he suddenly realised who one of the performers was. It was... him. Terry slid forward in his seat, enraptured. They were doing some sketch about a bucket and a banana but Terry was no longer paying it any attention.
When the show ended Michael was asked to stay and meet one of the others who would be writing for the summer revue. He waited impatiently, smoothing his hair and biting his lower lip and brushing off his jacket until finally he saw a boy coming towards him. Two boys coming towards him. One of them, the first one he'd seen was his mate, Robert, and the other... his heart leapt into his throat. The boy from the poster.
"Oi! Here we are!" exclaimed Robert. He strode up to Michael and then stood aside so that the boy with coal-black eyes and Michael faced one another.
"Terry Jones, Michael Palin!"
Michael grinned. He offered his right hand and said in rather a mumble "Pleased to meet you." He couldn't help noticing the intensity flickering in the black eyes, and his own insides crawled eagerly.
Terry took his hand gently and smiled. "Pleasure's all mine."
***