This is more someone from the past falling in love but eh ENJOY
“He must have had a life before this.
Sisters, brothers, a home. A family of his own.
Now it was all gone.
All he could remember was the flames illuminating the surrounding terrain. A beautiful painting of turmoil on a battlefield. The excruciating pain, the blood drenching his nightclothes.”
Atlas was many things, but he was not dainty. He was a warrior of his time, spending many hours on the training grounds. Sharpening his movements, even though it usually took one hard swing to kill most people. His life was normal for a prince, spending his days in his room, and pulling pranks on his younger siblings. Reading and rereading his favourite “masterpieces.” Pride and Prejudice and The Odyssey were his favourites. His books were always there for him, as a crutch holding up a kingdom. And so was his art.
George was an intellectual boy. He spent the majority of his time reviewing textbooks and studying for the next new unit. A genius of sorts, he was called, although his genius came from hard work. Not talent.
The two boys met by accident when they shouldn’t have.
The year was unclear.
But the date was July 19.
George had gone to his room to read a book assigned for the year ahead. Tiredly, he held a cup of tea in one hand and his book in the other. He sat down on his bed, fixed his glasses, and opened the book.
Atlas was in the throne room, where he was supposed to be preparing for that night's ball. His legs dangled off the side of the chair like a child, despite being almost nineteen. He fiddled with the cover of the book in his lap, scanning the room for anything that made it less than perfect. When he didn’t find anything, he opened the book. An annotating pen in hand.
But the pages were-- blank?
Atlas scoffed with displeasure. There were no words, but he didn’t want to get up- he was lazy. And he had to find a use for this empty book anyways.
Disheartedly, he began to sketch out the castle, not leaving any detail undone.
George opened the book to find an extremely realistic drawing of a castle. It was as if he could feel the brick, and see the beautiful colour of the stained glass windows. It was so ornate, but what was it doing in his school book?
George looked around for a moment, before his eyes fixated on a pack of markers on his side table. Just as he had imagined, he began colouring in the stained glass windows. It wasn’t perfect, but it got the idea out there. The ink didn’t smudge once, as if it was some kind of print out. The pages looked worn and dirty with time, but George didn’t question it. He had never read this book before, perhaps it was meant to look like this. But he knew, somewhere in his heart, that that was not the case.
The following morning came, and Atlas jumped out of bed. He grabbed the-- what he decided was-- journal, and ran downstairs for breakfast. His mother always said he needed somewhere to keep his emotions, why not a random book? Quickly, he snatched a boiled egg off of his brother's plate before running out to the garden. Cherry blossoms scattered the grass, and a marble duet bench sat next to a beautiful stream of water. It was a lovely day, the sky painted a bright orange. Atlas leaned down and scooped some flowers in his palm and pressed them into one of the journal's pages. He flipped open to the first page, where he paused in shock. The castle was coloured with an array of different pigments. Surely, this must have cost thousands of dollars! Who would pay for such things? He ran his fingers over the page, feeling that the ink seemed completely thin and flat on the paper. Confused, Atlas began sketching again. He added a forest and flowers for this other person to colour, whether he knew who it was or not.
This exchange went on for months. Atlas sketching on a page and George colouring it. Eventually, Atlas’s curiosity overcame his reason. He demanded to know who the person spending more and more time and money on his art was. At the bottom of the page he was working on, he wrote a small note. Not big enough to take away from the piece, but not small enough to ignore. It was simple,
“Who are you?”
Atlas couldn’t sleep, wondering who this person was. He racked his mind for possible solutions. One of his parents? No, they wouldn’t have the time for that. One of the workers? No, they wouldn’t have the money for that. Unless it was a thief who just really liked his art, there wasn’t anyone Atlas could think of who would do such a thing. So he stayed up. He kept the book in his room, rather than the library, and stared at the next blank page. His eyes turned red and hot, because he believed if he blinked, he would miss it. But there, at 3:25 in the morning, was when he figured it out.
George gracefully ran a pen along the paper, tracing out a photo of himself. He never made one wrong stroke. It was like magic. One blot of ink on Georges paper one blot of ink on Atlas’s. Atlas picked up a quill and ink from next to him. Hesitating, he put pen to paper and began sketching. First a flower, then himself.
For the rest of the night, they wrote back to each other. Whether it was in words or in drawings, that night drew them closer. It solidified that there was another person out there, even if they didn't know where, or when, they were from.
Atlas felt crazy, this wasn't happening. It felt like something from a bedtime story his mother would read him as a child. Those cheesy romance stories where everything turned out well in the end.
Their conversation continued regardless.
"How is your cursive so good?"
"It is a requirement for all of the occupants in the castle."
"The... castle? What person nowadays has a castle?"
"What person 'nowadays' has a magic book?
"But it's 2022, how do you afford a castle?"
George paused for a moment. This couldn’t be real.
But if it was, and there was another person on the other side of that book-
He sure as hell wasn’t going to let him go.
No matter what year he was from.