Every story takes the path of one of the seven original plots. The heroine is from a rich family; she marries a prince; they live happily ever after in a beautiful castle. Her family doesn't approve of his. She's poor and he's rich. She's rich and he's poor. Whatever the plot may be, it's certain that the story will be loved. We love to hear different versions of the same story. It can deviate from the norm so much that the plot isn't recognizable, but as long as it has a happy ending, it'll be sure to be read again.
This time, the story won't follow one of the seven original plots. This time, the story will follow the plot of a couple who never really worked well together, but ignited passion, all the same. This time, the story won't be told from the princess's point of view; no, rather, it will be told from the point of view of the prince. This time, the ending of the story will be left up to you.
But like all stories, happy or sad, long or short, old or modern, the same words will be used to begin the tale, for better or for worse.
Once upon a time . . .
All the king's
horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put us back together
again.
We huffed and we puffed,
And we blew this house down.
We
tried. Yeah, we tried.
When did the sun
stop shining?
When did we turn into two divided?
I guess we
will never really know why,
But I remember once upon a time.
He lives in a house on the hill. From a distance, it's got gingerbread edging; the sun hits the whitewash in a gleaming sort of way. It's tall and the roof is pointed; it's the perfect Queen Anne, nestled in the rolling green hills of Connecticut, dark and picturesque against the painted summer sky.
When you get closer, you can take in all the careful landscaping and the arbors and the wrought-iron bench encircling the weeping willow in the front drive. You might notice the American flag on the pole above the front door; the leaded glass windows might catch your eye. And if you didn't know better, you'd think that this was a show home, a home meant for people who are in love with the lighter side of history. In that case, you'd be right – it is a home meant to impress other people.
But what you wouldn't realize is that it's a family home, too. Mark Samuel Sloan is the only child of independently-wealthy parents. Their only job seems to be to discuss other people in the breakfast room at the back of the mansion. And their seven-year-old son attends private school; he rarely sees his parents at all.
WASP children are often stereotyped as being unloved. That isn't the case here. However, it's not really that he's neglected more that he's just overlooked. Like he's a fixture of having a rich lifestyle, a son accessory thrown in to ensure that the family home passes down through the right gender – that the family name is safely preserved for another generation.
So, they're not totally aware of him, although they care about him very, very much. He's used to being in the background; to being raised by nannies who were the ones who got him from his crib when he cried; bathed him and cuddled him at night during a thunderstorm, and made his favourite meals. He's used to them parting his dark, almost-black hair on the side and taming it down for private school; to them teaching him how to tie a proper Windsor knot in his uniform tie, and adjusting his sweater so that he won't get in trouble for looking rumpled.
He's introspective and quiet at home. He spends time in his room, building model ships and dreaming of the day his dad might take a minute to tell him the names of the decks and the parts of the boat. He keeps out of his parents' way, sitting quietly at dinner, staring at his plate while they argue about stock prices. No one thinks to ask him any questions about school. No one thinks to make sure he has enough milk or gets any dessert. When the meal ends, he sneaks back to his room, does his homework, and tucks himself into bed.
At eight years old, you shouldn't have to think about making sure the windows are shut before going to sleep so that the rain doesn't come in off the sea. You shouldn't have to shiver under a thin blanket because the nanny has the night off and no one thinks to come and tuck a warm blanket around you.
It's no wonder that Mark is known as one of the snotty rich kids in his class. It's no wonder that he doesn't have many friends.
It's no wonder that when he dreams – if he dreams – he dreams of a home more like his best friend, Derek Shepherd, gets to have.
Sometimes the poorest kids live in crystal palaces.
/
Mark kicks at the gravel and sighs impatiently. "Are you going to hurry up, or what?"
Derek Shepherd is slightly smaller and definitely less mature, but he's Mark's best friend, anyway. He is because he's a boy and he's not adverse to trying to climb trees or playing in the mud, even though he's thinner and paler than Mark. He's also not very brave, which makes him the perfect best friend for Mark, who's got enough courage for his whole third-grade class.
"I'm coming. You could slow down," Derek whines, and Mark smirks, but he adjusts his stride so that Derek can catch up. Behind the boys, Derek's four sisters are picking their way over the wormy sidewalks, trying not to ruin their shoes. The day is rainy; it's overcast and foggy, and Mark kicks moodily at a rock.
"I'm so tired of waiting for you. You're so whiny," he suddenly lashes out, and Derek's face freezes, and then crumples a little bit. Immediately, Mark feels bad.
"I'm kidding, jeez, can't you take a joke?" he apologizes gruffly, and Derek's blue eyes behind his round glasses brighten. They trudge into the schoolyard, and Mark spies a bunch of fourth-grade boys splashing in the mud. Knowing how Derek feels about getting his clothes wet, Mark pushes him behind, forgetting to take care to be gentle, but he doesn't escape the notice of the boys.
"Sloan, when are you going to lose the baby?" The biggest one straightens, the bottom of his navy slacks liberally spattered. Mark simply rolls his eyes and keeps going, keeping Derek behind him. What he fails to realize, though, is that Derek's shoes are untied.
When the smaller boy trips, the bigger boys don't wait. They push his face into the mud, laughing as his glasses crack and his jacket gets slathered in mud. Mark doesn't stop to think. He hauls off and punches the one holding Derek down. Immediately, the older boy bursts into tears as his nose starts to spurt blood, and the second fourth-grader, standing behind him, goes for Mark.
"Fuck off!" Mark shouts, just before the boy can punch him, and immediately, all the children in the surrounding area gasp. Out of the crowd, a redhead rushes forward.
"I'm telling on you, Mark Sloan! That word is bad!" Her blue eyes snap and she stamps a small foot angrily. "And I'm telling on you, John Bolton, for hurting Derek Shepherd!" With a gentler hand, she pulls Derek out of the mud. Derek's face is covered except for the tearstains leaving clean tracks on his cheeks.
Mark straightens and then groans. "Addison Montgomery . . ."
"What?" She stands in front of him, taller than the other girls, flaming hair cascading down her back when every other girl's hair is braided. Her shoes are untied. Her jacket is unbuttoned. Mark knows her because they're in the same class and in the same neighbourhood, too. He's been forced to play with her many a time, and he's hated every second of it.
"Why can't you just mind your own business? You're always telling. I'm telling!" He finishes, mocking her girlish voice. "Just go away. This is none of your business."
"Yeah? Well, you didn't seem to be doing anything, Mark. You let Derek get beat up and you just stood there."
Derek frowns in Mark's direction. "He punched Steve Jones."
"Yeah. Boys," Addison spits, wiping the mud from Derek's face with her coat sleeve. Almost immediately, the mud spreads down the side of her jacket when she drops her arm, and Mark can't help but smile.
"You're all dirty, you know. Some girl," he teases, picking up his backpack. "Well, aren't you going to go tell?" He makes a face at her and she makes one right back.
"I'm going to tell on them," she says, pointing at the fourth-grade boys, who are already making their way up to the school. "I won't tell on you, but I want something if I don't."
"I don't have any money," Mark says immediately, and Derek shakes his head. "I don't either."
"That's not what I want," Addison scoffs, tossing her red hair. "I need a favour from you." She points at Mark.
Mark looks resigned. "What do you want? This better not be some stupid girly thing," he warns.
She makes a face back at him. "I need a prince for our game." She jerks a thumb back at the girls behind her. "We're playing princesses and I need a prince."
Mark immediately shakes his head. "I'm not playing a stupid girly game."
"I'm not asking you to!" Addison shoots back. "I just need you for one thing. And then you can do whatever you want."
Mark considers for a moment. He's already been in trouble three times this year. If he gets in trouble again, he'll lose all his recesses, including lunch. He frowns and shakes his head slowly. "I don't know, Addison."
"Fine, I'll tell, then," she replies airily, and swings her hair behind her shoulders. "I don't need a boy to do it. It'd just be better if I had one."
Mark sighs and looks around. Only Derek is standing beside him, looking forlorn despite his cleaned-up face. "Fine. But it'll be one recess and that's it. And if you tell anyone, I'll tell everyone that you pushed Derek in the mud."
"Fine, it's a deal," she replies, and extends a muddy hand. Mark shakes it, and is surprised at its warmth and strength.
/
"Let me guess. You need me to rescue you from something, am I right?" Mark is leaning up against a tree, staring at Addison and her girlfriends behind the big school. They're all wearing a dress-up crown, but only Addison's is slightly askew on her head.
"No." Addison shoots him a glare. "Not all princesses need rescuing, you know."
"Well, they do in all the stories I've read."
"Well, maybe you're not reading the right stories," she replies. "In Twelfth Night, Violet dresses up like a man to get what she wants."
"Twelfth Night?"
"Shakespeare, stupid." Addison rolls her eyes and Mark rolls them back. "I don't read."
"Obviously." She turns her back and fiddles with the cape on another girl's shoulders for a moment, then turns back. "Well, maybe Violet really isn't a princess. But anyway, she's still not the type of girl that needs rescuing. And I'm not, either."
"Then what do you want me here for?" Mark is utterly confused. "You wanted a prince."
Addison finishes fiddling and smiles. "You're going to marry Jessica." She points at the smallest, blondest of the little girls, who gives him a shy smile. Mark groans.
"I knew I'd have to marry SOMEBODY."
"So? You want me to tell? I can, you know," Addison replies bossily, and then grabs his hand. "Here, hold her hand. We're starting the wedding now."
"I don't want to hold her hand."
"Fine, don't. I'll talk to Mrs. Smith after recess."
"Fine!" He grumbles and takes Jessica's hand, which is slightly sticky. Addison clears her throat importantly.
"We are gathered here today to marry the prince and the princess together. You may now kiss the bride."
"Wait!" Mark drops Jessica's hand. "You didn't say anything about any kissing, Addison!"
"It's not a real kiss, stupid. Just kiss her hand."
Mark grimaces, but Addison taps her foot and he finally drops a peck on Jessica's hand. All the girls giggle and Mark blushes. "Okay, okay, am I finished now?"
"No." Addison plucks the wedding tiara from Jessica's hair and plonks it on the next girl's head. "You're going to marry Tara and Kristen, too."
"What?!"
"Well, if you don't want to . . ." Addison suddenly gives him a smile and he lowers his eyes.
"Fine. But after this, I'm done."
They go through the ritual again two more times, stopping once when a group of boys pass and Mark has to hide behind the stand of trees until they pass. As bossy as Addison is, she isn't heartless.
When the "ceremonies" are finished, Mark immediately drops the last girl's hand. "Okay, I'm done now, right? I'm done being your prince?"
Addison is about to nod, but little Jessica speaks up. "Addie, it's your turn to get married!"
Immediately, both Addison and Mark blush, and Addison shakes her head. "Shut up," she hisses, but Mark suddenly grins.
"Well, may as well do one more," he says, winking at Addison in a way that will be his trademark when he becomes a man. Addison unwillingly takes his hand, and the "ceremony" is performed. When it comes time to kiss Addison's hand, though, Mark is struck by a feeling of revenge, and quick as a wink, he kisses her cheek instead.
"EWW!" The girls' shrieks nearly blow his eardrums, but Addison simply blushes and nonchalantly wipes her cheek off.
"Now we're even?" He asks her.
"Yeah. We're even." And she shoots him a smile that stays with him for the rest of the day.
/
They're fighting again, and it's not even that it's abusive, but it is gin-soaked and he just can't deal with it. Because he's not feeling well and because he's tired, and the wind is cold and he can't reach the outside of the casements to close them, he huddles in bed and swallows against the rising sore throat. And he suddenly gets tired of it; having to be brave and big and emotionless, and he becomes a very tired, very sick little boy who just wants someone to cuddle him.
When he makes his way down the road, no one stops to wonder why there's a school-aged child picking his way over the sidewalk and puddles. No one pulls over; no one bothers him at all. And he's a completely different child from the cocky boy in the schoolyard; from the teasing prince in Addison's game.
But he's recognizable to Derek's mother, who opens the door to the shivering little white-faced figure. And she doesn't say anything; she just picks him up in her arms, despite the fact that he's taller than Derek and about ten pounds heavier, and brings him into the warmth.
When he's snuggled down in the bed beside Derek, given Tylenol for his fever, and tucked in carefully, he finally relaxes, and mouths the words he'd like to say to someone else.
"Thanks, Mom."