Archive of Our Own

“To love someone is firstly to confess: I'm prepared to be devastated by you.”

Liverpool, 1958

The first time George met John, the club behind was too noisy, and he barely grazed his shoulders. He had to look up at him, and from down there he appeared to be larger than life itself. He had clutched the neck of his guitar tightly, suddenly realising what Paul meant when he went on and on about teddy boy John Lennon who had given him a chance to be in his band, and if George was lucky, he could be in it too!

He swallowed, as John snickered down at him, sharp eyes keenly watching his every move. Next to him, Paul bumped his shoulders, grinning. He looked right proud, that twat; George hadn't even done anything yet. For all he knew, he could muck this all up in the next few seconds.

"Go at it, Georgie," Paul said, nodding at him to start.

Even when he wasn't looking at John, George could feel his eyes on him, and it made him want to run back home to the comfort of the bedroom he shared with his siblings. Certainly that seemed a better prospect than this. Nonetheless, he played 'Raunchy' easily enough, fingers falling right onto their places with familiar ease.

But of course, he made the mistake of looking up during the last bit of the song—unable to resist the magnetic pull of one John Lennon and his searching eyes locked with the other's narrowed ones and his fingers slipped, fumbling the notes. It came to an end abruptly then, with the wrong note ringing loudly in the air around them. Fucking hell, bloody fucking hell. George didn't want to see Paul's expression, so he looked back down at his guitar, a little flush rising up his face.

After a moment, it was Paul's hand that clapped him on the shoulder, his voice carefully light in George's ears, as he said, "Yer nerves were cracking up, aye?"

George nodded, but chose to remain silent.

"Does he talk?" John drawled out, bored.

Paul laughed, sounding silly, "Loads. Did you like it, Johnny?"

The hopefulness in Paul's voice made George feel like his case was being pleaded against a particularly mean judge.

"Alright, it was. But Paul, a tot isn't he? No one's gonna take us seriously."

"Oh c'mon! He is 14. Besides, it'll be good for the band. He's the only decent player we got."

"Shut your gob." George muttered, having had enough of them talking about him like he wasn't even there.

John sighs, gesturing to the inside of the bustling club, "Look, I've got to go in. Bring him 'round for next practice, and we'll see."

With that, he marched inside, soon disappearing among the throng of people. Paul turned to him, with a gleeful face. "Oh George! You're in, you're in!"

"You sound bonkers."

George turned around and started walking away from the club, and towards the bus stand. It was already later than he was allowed out of the house, lest he could do was sneak back in before his mum got an inkling of it.

Paul followed him, which surprised him, having thought that he would much rather follow John into the club.

"Gear up, aye! Next practice is tomorrow, Pete's house. Expect to see you, I do."

He throws an arm around his shoulders, and George has the urge to shake him off, shake him off hard enough that he stumbles, but he resists it, and lets himself be led towards their destination.

Later, when they are on the bus Paul is looking out of the window, humming under his breath. George doesn't think he has ever heard the tune before so he asks, "What's that?"

"Hm?" Paul turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in question.

"The tune?"

"Oh, dunno, actually." Paul shakes his head, a smile overtaking his face. Fondness, George identifies. "John's been humming in me ears all day. I picked it up, stuck in me head now."

He nods in acknowledgement, and then they're lapsed in silence again. Occasionally, the bus halts at various stops, and the rare person gets up. But so late into the night, it is fairly empty, and the noises all around seem muted at best.

Paul nudges him when his stop is near, and George blinks away the dream he was hatching with his eyes open. He gets up hastily at that, trodding towards the door with a hurried goodbye thrown over his shoulders.

When he was finally sneaking up into his room through the window, making sure not to wake up his brothers, it was the same tune that was playing in his head, unfortunately a little too loudly.

"For fuck's sake, is this any time?" Harry groans, turning over and away so that he is no longer facing the window through which the street light falls directly onto his bed.

"Sorry," George mumbles, not really all that apologetic.

Even when he gets in his bed after changing into his pajamas and settles in getting comfortable, the tune keeps playing, almost as if it's tying him together with John and Paul.

How strange, that thought.

Soon he falls asleep and in his dreams he is standing in the middle of a big stage, with John and Paul standing ahead of him, singing and laughing together in a microphone. His guitar is slung over his shoulder, and it's weighing him down as he tries to reach them to share the microphone. But somehow, he keeps moving backwards with each try.

When he awakes, he doesn't remember any of it, just a nagging annoyance in his chest that serves as a vague reminder of his dream.

Hamburg,1960

George has never quite experienced anything like this place before, and for a while there he felt himself stick out like a sore thumb, an outcast with his baby face, and an affinity for thinking before doing anything, unlike the others. Soon enough, he found himself just mimicking everyone else around him, the ease in their shoulders, and the devious eyes that roam around everywhere with hunger.

It was easier than he thought, to blend in when he acted like nothing bothered him and he has never thought twice about anything in his life. So much easier, that he fell into it head first, and really did stop thinking as much. The prellies definitely helped with that, so he keeps popping them in at intervals.

When he is on stage, it almost feels like he is watching everything through dirty tinted glasses, with a bad eyesight (kind of how he imagines John's vision to be like). He moves through the days barely conscious of anything. It's all the same at the end of the day, endless smoking that burns his lungs, and leaves him smelling more of nicotine than anything else. Their drinks were cheap, and quite frankly tasted like piss, but whatever kept them from being sober was considered a heaven of its own.

George doesn't think any of them would've lasted a day here without the intoxication.

He is on his bed in their shared quarters, nursing a terrible headache that he is half sure could be cured with more prellies. The door opens, and he stuffs his face deeper into the sheets, the mattress so firm and flat, each and every night that he sleeps on it, it leaves him feeling a little more broken.

"Oh, Georgie's been hiding in here," Paul shouts loud enough to disturb the whole world.

"Such a soft speaker, Paulie," George says, raising his head to give him a withering glare.

Paul doesn't reply, just comes and sits on his bed. He is not looking at him, and George thinks he is not even here by the looks of it. He does that sometimes, goes all the way somewhere no one can reach him, all while his body stays as still as a statue.

"What are you doing 'ere?" He asks anyway, because he had escaped to the room knowing none of them would be here at this hour.

Paul blinks, then shrugs. Pretending to be completely unbothered as he says, "John's disappeared with Stu, I dunno."

"So?"

"So, I'm here."

"So you thought you could bother me ‘stead?" George rolls his eyes, already fed up with this conversation. He wants to sleep. It feels like he hasn't slept in weeks, and that may very well be true, he doesn't know. His eyelids hurt, tender to the touch from the deprivation he was no doubt going through.

"Yeah," Paul agrees, climbing into his bed properly now, pressing his body close to George.

George sighs, shifting a little to give him more space, but Paul keeps leaning in closer and eventually he gives up. He lays still in his place, the shared heat of their bodies only a little uncomfortable in the burning hot room.

He doesn't even realise when he drifts off. It's only when he gains half of his consciousness, still mostly lost somewhere in the world of slumber that he hears a little admission he is going to pretend for the rest of his life not knowing about. He will chalk it up as a dream, a stupid stupid dream.

"I don't know how to get over it,” Paul is saying, his voice trembling and barely there but still so loud in his ears, “I can't breathe properly when he's not ‘round.”

He doesn't need to be named, George knows. He has always known.

Then there is Paul's hand on his elbow, the touch soft and almost non-existent, really. But still, very clearly, there.

Hamburg, 1962

The silence feels stifling, George is having a hard time keeping his breathing intact. He looks around the room hoping to catch someone's eye, and have them help him figure out how to feel, how to react, how to pretend that it isn't threatening to split up his chest in two, when suddenly there's a loud, barking laugh. It startles him and reverberates around in his skull.

It's John, he realises as he blinks out of his thoughts. He sees him haunched over with his hands braced on his knees laughing. He is laughing so egregiously, the harsh sound echoing around the room, and in everyone's ears. It stops just as abruptly as it had started, and then John's falling on his knees on the hard floor.

"Dead, you say?" John asks, looking up at Astrid, who stands motionless with a stoic face. His eyes are wide and red rimmed, but he isn't crying, of course he isn't, and George feels like a fool for having to swallow back tears.

How could anyone answer him?

John nods to himself, as he stands up gingerly. His legs seem a little unsteady, but he pays it no mind, "I need a fucking smoke. Anyone?"

Nobody moves, but George finds himself patting around in his pockets to pull out a pack anyway. He throws it towards John, who catches it with a smile. The smile is sharp, all teeth and ready to chew everything off.

There's an imperceptible shakiness in his body, as he lights up a fag, and inhales. "Alright, Astrid. Ta' for the news, aye."

And then he walks out.

"John—" Paul tries to call after, but the door shuts on them.

George doesn't see him again until later that night. He is piss drunk, clearly gone out of his mind, struggling to even sit up straight on the creaky stairs that lead up to their quarters. The first thing he wanted to do was call for Paul to handle this, but he hasn’t any clue where he is, and he fears John might fall down the stairs and crack his head open the minute he tries standing up again.

So he reaches him, a little hesitant and grabs hold of his bicep, squeezing. He doesn't know how to give comfort, doesn't know what to even say, really.

John looks up, bleary eyed, then shouts, "Georgie!"

"Yeah, yeah." He says trying to pull him up by the arm, but he stays put. "C'mon, let's get to bed. It's late."

John pats the narrow space beside him, "Sit."

George sighs, not wanting to obey, but does so anyway. He has time, he supposes.

"Do y'know," John slurs out, voice rough like he has been shouting all evening. "that I'm cursed, Georgie?"

"What?" George feels his face scrunch up in confusion as he feels a little discomfort zip through his spine at the words.

"Yeah," He laughs, his body shaking with the force of it. "Don't you know? Everyone I love dies!"

"That's bullshit!"

"It's the only truth I know."

"Well, you're wrong." George insists, half annoyed at him for being a stubborn git, and half for being such a prick about everything.

"You should stay away from me, Hari. And keep Paul away too." John's not even listening to him anymore, it seems. He is staring ahead with a blank expression, the laughter gone just as quickly as it had come.

"Don't tell me what to do,” George tells him, finding that he doesn't really mean it all that much. “And Paul can handle himself, he's hardly my business."

When George has finally managed to convince John to come to bed, and helped him carry himself up there, Paul is already there. He helps George deposit John on his bed, and then they stare at him while he rolls over, falling asleep almost immediately.

"You okay?" Paul asks him, breaking the fragile silence of the room.

"Alright."

"Do you think he'll play tomorrow?"

George turns to Paul, jaw clenched as a sudden anger overtakes him, "Always 'bout the bloody band, is it? Stu's dead! I know you didn't like him but—"

"Oh piss off!" Paul shoots back, glowering at him. "We can't throw the band away 'cause he's fucking dead. Grow up, George!"

"You selfish jerk!" The insult rips out of his throat, unintended. "You're so fucking full of yourself, you can't see anything other than—"

His words get cut short, because it's Paul's fist colliding with his jaw and then in a split second a striking pain blooms on the spot. George stares at him, wide eyed in disbelief and he wonders how he is still standing upright, wonders how there isn't a puddle of blood underneath his feet.

Paul's hand falls away, and he blinks at George in horror, stepping back. "Oh my god, George. I'm—"

"Leave it." He spits out, his mouth tasting metallic. He cradles his jaw in his hand and rushes out of the door, down the stairs, and onto the street.

And only when he has sequestered himself in an alleyway, that he lets himself blink the tears away, his eyes stinging from the force of it. Some of the stubborn ones escape still, and fall down the corner of his nose. He wipes them off roughly, irate that he is being such a baby about it.

At this moment the memories of a home where the tea is warm, and his siblings are loud haunt him the most. But it hasn't ever been a home without him.

London, 1965

The LSD trip was something else entirely, he couldn't put it into words even if he tried. It almost felt like opening your mind's eye, and seeing everything with this new pair of eyes where all of it seemed anew; strange and unfamiliar, but goodness did he get the appeal of it.

He wasn't very happy about the trickery, neither of them were, but something that he couldn't deny the satisfaction of was the fact that he did it with John. They went on an LSD trip together where everything was brighter and there was a sense of calmness in that thought. A victory, he no longer thought he wanted.

It was his and John's, more so than anything has ever been.

Paul wasn't happy about it, he had too many reservations for it. But Paul's always like that, jealous when John had something else going on other than him. George had felt only a little cruel, when that treacherous little victory had made him puff up his chest—especially when John had just rolled his eyes at Paul, called him a gutless wimp, and then turned to George, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and asked if he wanted to trip again.

So they did it again, and again, and again, and so many times since then that he lost track of it. Richie joined them sometimes now but Paul had made himself scarce, still not in on this fabulous idea.

It was when they were tripping together at George's place, late into the night with the only source of light being an Arco lamp that George had newly purchased, that John had turned to him and said, "Bit crazy, innit?"

George hummed, not quite understanding what he was on about. Maybe John had felt something different today, and he is about to give him some insight.

"Gets harder to stop feeling this way," John continued, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder.

"Feeling what?" George asked, his mouth feeling a little heavy as it takes him a minute to roll out the words.

"Everything is an illusion, don't you think? It'll all fall apart. The bubble's gonna burst, I feel."

George doesn't understand him, but he figures if they're talking, he might as well talk. It's what John wanted, right?

"The four-headed monster, they say. I don't think so. There's a two-headed monster, Richie and I are just normal lads."

"What d'you mean?"

"Y'know what I mean, Johnny."

"No, no. I fucking don't." He grits out, running a hand over his face.

"Well," George shrugs, not wanting to elaborate, but unable to stop either. "You're here with me right now, aren't you? Then, why are you thinkin' about him?"

"Reading minds now, are ye, Georgie?"

"You didn't answer."

"I don't have to bloody answer, if I don't fucking want to."

"Okay," George says, he doesn't particularly care for the answer. He already knows, he has known all his life practically. Things aren't going to change because of some LSD.

"You don't know half of it, you don't, Hari."

Still thinking he is a child then, or as oblivious as them. Unfortunately, he has always had keen eyes, and sharp observing skills. He knows much more than they think he knows, and he doesn't even want to rub it in, it has sort of ruined him, knowing it.

"I'm not a child anymore, John," George says, because that's the only record he can set straight. Everything else doesn't even fucking matter, no matter what he says, John will believe what he wants to.

"No, 22, I heard. How's that going?" There's a laugh in his voice that almost feels patronising, but he chooses to ignore it.

"Great,” George says, not quite sure if he is floating or sitting still, “on my way to gain spiritual divinity, actually."

London, 1967

John's lost weight, and there's a haunted look in his eyes that scares George. He still makes stupid jokes, laughs more often than not, but it never really reaches his eyes anymore. All of them have noticed, it sits uncomfortably atop their ribs, but none of them bring it up. They only walk in egg shells around each other now, the four-headed monster drowned in a pit of nothingness centuries ago.

Sometimes when John enters the studio, George has to blink and look away, because for a split few seconds he wouldn't recognise him at all. Hardly the lad he knew, this one.

Paul watches too, at a safe distance for once, as if he hasn't got the slightest clue how to reach John anymore. George has tried every meditation advice he has received in India, but none of them calm him down anymore, or make him stop thinking for a night. More often than not, he finds himself laying awake until the birds are chirping again, wondering when he started feeling this way, when it all went wrong, and why he didn't stop it.

So, when he walks into the studio early one morning, having not slept through the night again, he stops short at what he sees. His breath stutters, and then he is walking backwards and out. He only lets out his breath when he is pressed against a wall just outside the door, unable to really believe his own eyes.

He squeezes his eyes shut, resisting, but then promptly gives up and peeks into the room. The sight in front of him is so familiar yet so terribly foreign at the same time, it leaves his guts clenching a little painfully.

John and Paul are sitting on the piano bench, their fingers lazily working through a melody he is fairly certain he has never heard, and neither of them are speaking. They're pressed close to each other's sides, probably residing in a world of their own. George's heart is beating a little faster for an unknown reason, his breath coming out choppy.

Eventually, Paul's fingers fall away, and he leans closer to John, whispers something in his ear. John nods, still focused on getting the keys right. George blinks, and Paul's hands are in his hair now, dragging through the mess slowly, with a measured gentleness to his movements that reminds George of being 15 and terribly sick, when his mother's hand was on his forehead checking his temperature, her fingers in his hair sorting out the mess.

He turns away, walks out. He lights a fag, then another, and another after that, until he has gone through an entire pack. He doesn't know how long it has been when Richie finally comes in, giving him an amused look, "Alright there, mate?"

George nods, letting himself be led towards the studio again, this time making sure to cause unnecessary noises so that he doesn't have to witness that again. He doesn't think he could without losing a bit more of himself.

Rishikesh, 1968

It was early in the morning, the sun had yet to peek through the horizon and George found himself out on the porch, with a guitar in hand. Paul and Richie were yet to arrive, so it was just him and John, with Pattie and Cynthia, of course.

There was something about this place that made him settle down and listen to every noise that came from all around. At this time, the only noise was that of the early rising villagers going to work, or the occasional sound of a dog barking in the distance. The birds were slowly waking from slumber, and making their presence known as well.

He lights a fag and inhales deeply, letting the smoke hit the back of his throat and fill up his lungs.

There's a tune up in his head, and placing the cigarette on the headstock of his guitar between the strings, he tries putting it out through the instrument. The only words he knows for the tune right now were something along the lines of, round and round in circles, I go. That particular feeling, he has been resonating a lot with lately. It's like he keeps running through a maze, meeting the same ends he keeps running away from. Where's the escape? How does he find one? Does he want to find it?

He abruptly stops playing when he feels a presence behind him.

"Good on the ears, that one." John says, as he sits down beside him on the porch. He is squinting towards him from the lack of eyesight, no doubt. "Have I heard that one 'fore?"

"No," George says, looking away from the way he is a bit rough looking but soft 'round the edges from sleep. His heart thuds a little restlessly in his chest, as he says, "It's new, just came up with it."

"For the next album, aye?"

George just shrugs in response, unable to find any words.

"The lads will be here soon," John says, looking up at the sky. The sun has just started peeking out, orange hues spreading all over the sky.

He watches John light a ciggie of his own, notices the slight tremble in his hands, and squashes down his words. Instead he says, "Feeling bored already, Lennon?"

"Bored, me?" John replies, with a laugh in his voice. "You used to be a better company, y'know?"

"I reckon so," George says, smiling ruefully. "I didn't know how not to be."

"That you didn't, Hari." John agrees easily, looking a little wistful. "Wonder what happened."

George almost laughs, the ugly noise crawling up his throat but he presses his lips together, swallowing it down. "Well, for starters, I grew up and realised all of this is a load of shit."

He takes a long drag from his almost burnt out fag, even as it burns his lips just a little and then, he let's it fall to the ground. He watches John's eyes tracking the bud rolling off. He opens his mouth without thinking this time, and in a hushed voice says, "That I'm living someone else's dream."

John's eyes snap to him, features hardening. He couldn't decipher them anymore the way he used to once, so George looks away.

"You could use a laugh or two," John says eventually, a little nonsensically perhaps. "You don't even laugh at my jokes anymore."

George is glad he is still speaking, despite wanting him not to.

"You could try being funny, then."

An unexpected arm comes over his shoulders and he tenses, holding himself still in the face of such intrusion. It settles heavily on him, curling around his figure, and George suddenly gets a noseful of John, smelling like every intoxication he has ever tried and more but still solid and warm enough that he eventually lets himself lean into him.

So much for running away. So much for walking out.

Tittenhurst Park, 1971

It's strange, seeing John's anger shine through his words rather than his face; because his face is just delighted, mischievous even. But he spits out the words like he is spitting fire directly onto a bystanding Paul.

How do you sleep, ya cunt?

George almost didn't take up his invite at first, felt wary of it. Why would John want him to play on his album? An absurd thought, that. But then, John had smiled, tugged him into an one armed hug that felt warmer than the English summer.

He seemed very openly pleased to see George, looking at him and counting on his support when he first played him the new songs he was working on. Of course, it was the one that John wanted him to hear the most, that stuck out of the lot. He had almost laughed at it, the words igniting a very familiar feeling in his chest. He had to stop himself from saying anything, though. He didn't really want to get into all of that with John, now.

"Do you like it, then?" John asks him, long after the recording session when they were getting high in the living room. It wasn't supposed to be just them here, but somehow when George opens his eyes he finds that everyone else has made themselves scarce. "Thought you'd like it, y'know."

He turns to look at John, shrugging, "It's pretty good, yeah. I like me part the best."

He watches John bark out a laugh at that, fingers rolling a joint with familiar precision. Lovely hands, those; he has only heard Paul talk about them a thousand times before. "Great solo, that."

"I know," George replies, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that his words settle in deep somewhere inside him. He couldn't possibly let him know that he still has any kind of hold on him.

"Right. So," John starts again, when the joint is almost half finished, and they are both a little more at ease.

"Have you talked to him recently?" George blurts out cutting him off, then bites his lips wondering why he wanted to know.

It takes a while for John's answer to come, and when it does, it sounds forced like he'd much rather not say it. "No."

George hums in response, not really believing it but choosing not to say anything. He's been biting his tongue a lot lately, especially around John.

"I know what you're thinking," John continues, shaking his head. "You're wrong. I don't wanna talk to him. Looking at him makes me so fucking mad."

"You're always angry, anyway. It's not just him."

"No, it's not just him. You make me mad too."

George raises an eyebrow, "Oh, do I?"

"Yeah, you think I don't know what you're doing with Dylan?"

"What, Bob?"

"Yeah, Bob," John repeats, spitting out the name with a twisted look on his face.

"Sorry, I have other friends, John." George deadpans, letting the burnt out joint fall into the ashtray. "What, are you jealous?"

"Jealous?" John scoffs, glaring at him from behind his glasses, "Of bloody Bob fucking Dylan, piss off."

"I can't ever fucking understand you. Jesus." George mutters, tired, so tired of it being the same old bullshit between them.

"Shouldn't have asked you to come here, I'm sorry." He is lighting up a fag now, dropping the lighter on the floor as soon as he is done, and not reaching to pick it up.

George's mouth falls open at that, as he rushes to get out his words, even though he knows that would mean nothing at all. How could they, when John has already made up his mind?

"I wanted to be here."

"No, you didn't."

"You don't—you don't know shit, John."

"I know—"

"No, you don't!" He shouts, standing up, hovering over a startled looking John. "I know, you think you can read Paul's mind, but you can't read mine."

John looks away, fag in mouth as he takes a drag, his breath shaky. When he speaks, his voice is cold, barely any emotion in it. "Late, innit? You should leave."

"You haven't got any idea. Don't fucking pretend." George mutters into the space between them, before he turns to leave.

He doesn't look back, not even when the sound of the ashtray hitting the wall rings in his ears.

Friar Park ,1981

George finds it difficult to wrap his head around what it means to love someone after they are dead. He has tried understanding it by turning towards spirituality, channeling his innermost self to give him any explanation that makes sense.

When none of it really worked out, he scribbled down new lyrics for a song that was already completed. He recorded the new version with his vocals, ignoring the growing lump in his throat. He recalls the morning he had received the news, over a phone call from a manager or whoever he doesn't quite remember.

His first reaction was to laugh at the news, and he did so, a little huff of a breath escaping his nose. He had understood John's reaction to Stu's death then, in a way he had never before, and that had only made it harder. Made him want to throw things around and shout till he couldn't anymore; that was strange for him, he has always been much more level-headed than that. But when it comes to him—

John Lennon shot dead. The newspapers read, every piece of media was reporting it like their life depended on it, he couldn't escape it, not really.

Then, Paul had called while he was trying to escape this reality where John didn’t exist anymore, wasn’t out there somewhere—away from George but breathing, alive, only a phone call away. Paul was speaking in a hushed voice as if speaking louder would break the temporary thing between them.

"Did you hear?"

"Yes."

Paul takes a shuddering breath, voice heavy with something when he says, "He's gone, George. He's—"

"I know," He says quietly, not knowing what else to say. His grip on the phone tightens.

"Four bullets, I heard." His voice shakes ever so slightly as he says it.

George can almost see him, clutching the phone with both his hands, twisting his face this way and that to keep himself from crying. He can envision it all so well, he feels like he is standing right before him, watching him unfold the walls around himself and sink to the ground in a pile of heaping mess.

"George—" He chokes out, "you've to come here."

George didn't ask where, he just went.

It's thinking of that night that he calls Paul up and asks him to do background vocals on the song. When Paul arrives, with Linda in toe, he gives them both a nod of greeting, but Paul rolls his eyes, and pulls him in close, sticking his nose in his hair, and breathing him in. George steps out of the embrace as fast as possible, barely holding onto the shudder that threatens to wreck through his whole body.

Paul corners him in the music room later that day, when the others have gone out for lunch. George looks up at him from his perch on the piano stool, where he was playing around with a random tune. He is not much of a piano guy, but sometimes it calls for him.

"How are you?" Paul starts, leaning his elbow over the piano, and peering at his face.

"Quite well, Paul," George replies, even though he knows it's just a cursory question.

"Good, good. Alright meself, too."

George only hums, still playing the melody in his head. Soon, Paul's fingers join in, playing notes that he thinks don't perfectly match what he was going for, but it's pleasant enough for him to not feel disturbed by it.

"I don't know what to do with it," Paul mutters out eventually, fingers flying over the keys, sometimes grazing George's own and then jumping away. "All this love, I've got for him. What do you do with it?"

"I don't know," he admits, his fingers halting. He doesn't look up at him, just observes his thin, long fingers on the keys, still playing on. "Don't think I loved him that much."

"Piss off with that. Wrote for him, didn't you?"

"Guess that's where I put it, then. In me songs."

"I can't stand him, so typical of him really, to just—"

"Get killed?" George says, a corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Yeah," Paul agrees, huffing out a little laugh. "Bastard."

He couldn't give George anything now, not anymore, and yet there was no way to fully turn away from John Lennon, not even in death. All the hurt, all the anger, all of it seemed to be buried deep underneath a tender layer of love that he couldn't find it in himself to throw away. Not yet.

Cavendish Avenue, 1989

"I would appreciate it if you stopped bringing me up in your interviews," George blurted out the moment the door opened, and a tired looking Paul stood before him. He hadn't quite meant to say that, in fact on the drive here he had been thinking hard on what exactly he should say.

He hadn't meant to come here either, thought better of it once he heard that Paul was in London and staying at Cavendish for a while. Then, it was midnight and he had had too much to drink, and the records weren't cutting it anymore. He shouldn't have driven himself here, but there was no one else he could ask to get him here, not without pushing himself forward to be studied like a lab rat. So he got in his most discrete car; and here he is almost an hour and half later.

Paul blinks at him, understandably a little confused. His voice is rough when he speaks, coated in disbelief, "That you, George?"

"Y'know a lot of Georges, which one?" He bites back, unable to resist being snarky. Paul brings that out in him, despite all of his spiritual studies.

"What are you doing here?"

George sighs, tapping his shoes on the ground impatiently. "It's bloody freezing, are you gonna let me in or what?"

"Oh—here," he steps aside, and George bypasses him, heading straight for the living room, and depositing himself on the sofa.

"I shouldn't have come," he says when Paul joins him, perching himself gingerly a good distance away. “I didn't want to come here.”

"Well, you're here now. Might as well." Paul shrugs. "And what'd you say, 'bout the interviews?"

"You should stop bringing me up when you talk about John. It's uncouth, really." The words fall out of his mouth without his permission, and he winces at its harshness. "I ought to just leave."

He goes to get up but Paul sighs audibly, seeming proper annoyed now. "George, sit. I'll get some tea."

He holds himself still in his place as he hears Paul tinkering about in the kitchen. Taking the time he has, he looks around the place, trying to remember when he was here last. So many memories dance on his eyelids, so many people in and out of his conscious mind. It's hard being here, in this place, in the presence of a Paul who looks like he is standing on two left feet. George feels like the axis of his world has been inclining towards doom since the day he met him, but that's not true, is it? There was John too, in this story.

Paul comes back with a tray, tea and scones on it, and George's stomach gives a loud growl at the sight of nourishment. He flushes, embarrassed but Paul only gives him an indulgent smile, one that reminds him of their teenage days.

Over tea and scones, they have made many hit songs back in their days. The only difference was that John would be there too, perched somewhere near Paul, spitting awful jokes with his clever mouth that never seemed to shut up.

"I didn't mean it like that, Georgie," Paul says eventually, setting his cuppa down. "You ought to know, I didn't..."

George knows if it was a few decades ago, he would've said that he did know, but he doesn't anymore. Hasn't known for a long time now. So he stays put, nibbling on a scone, letting Paul work out his words. He has got nothing to help him with.

"I wasn't belittling you. I just, I know you must have your regrets—"

George looks at him straight, his voice hard when he grits out, "Yeah, 'cause you know anything about my regrets."

Paul's eyes hold his gaze, unblinking. He swallows, then admits, "You're right. I don't know you anymore, George. You're a stranger."

"You made me a stranger, Paul." He almost spits out, the old bitterness taking such a huge expanse in his being that he couldn't shake it off even if tried to. "Fuck right off."

"Why are you here, George?"

"I don't fucking know!" George yells, suddenly fed up of this. He wonders why he came, which part of him craved this, and why? "I don't fucking know what it is about you that makes me want to throw everything away. I can't stand you!"

He is standing up now, he realises glaring down at Paul, who is looking at him as if he had expected George's facade to break sooner than later. His face twists up, in anger, in sadness, as his eyes sting. He blinks rapidly, and then Paul is in front of him, standing nose to nose.

His hand comes up to his forehead, brushing away his long bangs. He whispers, "Oh, you're drunk. Aren't you?"

George leans in, into his calloused hand, breathing deeply. "Just a lil' bit."

"It's okay, I know. I know."

"What do y'know?"

Their foreheads are touching now, George's clammy one to Paul's warm one.

"That you loved him, didn't you Georgie?"

George swallows, "We all did. He was a lovable bastard."

"I shouldn't have said it," Paul says, looking at him with tired, watery eyes. And suddenly George would rather sleep for a hundred years than talk about this.

He hums non-commitably, letting himself linger in Paul's space for a second longer breathing in the scent of him, before he is stepping away. Stepping so far away that Paul couldn't reach him, not again.

London, 1993

Paul's older now, visibly so, much the same way George is—but his arms around him still feel the same, has the same softness that it once had. He puts a palm under his chin, holding him still for a second as he observes him with an adoring little smile. George resists the urge to shove him off, but when he does let go, all he wants to do is tug him right back in.

They are here to finalise things about the anthology today, and George has prepared himself to bite his tongue, and think before he speaks, lest it causes another mess he wouldn't know how to clear up.

He hasn't seen him in person in a while, so he watches him discreetly as he speaks to the others in the room. Takes notice of the white hair dotting his temple, the new wrinkles on his forehead, and near the corners of his eyes. His cheeks are still plump though, the same youthful bounce to his steps when he is excited. He looks away when Paul turns to him.

"Georgie, how ya doin'?" Paul sits beside him with a smile, rubbing his hands together.

"Good, I think. Yourself?"

"Alright, I'd say."

They look away, the little awkwardness between them stretching as does the silence. They get interrupted then, saving them both from further stilted conversation and then it's a whirlwind of decisions to make for what they want in the anthology, and how to go about it.

It's only later, when they are all done for the day and George feels a headache coming through that Paul finds him again.

"Starting a tour, y'know?" Paul says, leaning against the wall beside him, exhaling out a cloud of smoke.

George hums in response around his own fag, and says, "Heard so."

"Yeah, I was thinking..." Paul trails off, a little unsure, which is a weird feeling for Paul McCartney.

"Yeah?" George prompts, curious now.

"Well, you could come to one, y'know. See the band. We're alright, I reckon."

"More than alright, I heard on the radio," George replies, raising his eyebrows, "doing numbers still, aye."

Paul shrugs, pretending to be humble, though his smile gives him away.

"You should come by," He says again, looking at him with an open expression that makes him uncomfortable.

"I'll try to make it," He lies, trying to shift away from his knowing gaze.

"A bit selfish, don't you think?" Paul says then, his eyes never moving away from George's face. "To want to be someone's favorite."

George shrugs, lighting up another fag despite the oncoming headache, "People always have favorites, even when they don't realise it."

"Do you have one, then?"

"It's human nature to have one, I think."

"Who is it?" Paul asks, not letting him side step the question.

"You wouldn't know him," George says, finally returning his look, and almost reeling back from its intensity.

"That so?"

"Mhm, doesn't quite exist, I don't think."

Paul laughs at that, his gaze softening in a quiet understanding that George doesn't care much for.

"You still act like you're 14 when you're lying." Paul mumbles, folding his arms atop his chest as if shielding himself from an invisible force. When George merely blinks at him in confusion, he elaborates, "Your eyes get all squinty, and you look away. As if meeting eyes would out all your secrets."

"I don't do that," George says, finding that ridiculous to even entertain. What's more than ridiculous is the fact that apparently Paul paid enough attention to notice. Laughable really, that.

Paul shrugs, amused, "The more y'know, lad. The more y'know."

New York, 2001

George was tired of a lot many things as of lately. He was tired of going through different treatments and none of them doing him any good. He was tired of having to make all the legal arrangements before his imminent death so that his family wouldn't be hounded by all of it. He was tired of running away from the press, and the lack of privacy at such times. He was tired of people walking on egg shells around him.

So he had called Paul to come and meet him here. Richie too, but he'll be here in a day or two. George is sure he could hold on that long.

Unfortunately, he does a lot of things without thinking through them because now that Paul is here, they have just been sitting on the opposite ends of a settee in silence. Both of them fidgeting in their place to break the thick silence but finding nothing to break it with.

"How are you doing, Georgie?" Paul asks after a while, turning to look at him from his place.

"Good, good. Yeah, good." George says, even though they both know that's a lie.

Paul hums, and he is closer now somehow; their thighs pressing together. Something passes between his ribs, and he wishes he could speak out loud the things he had meant to say when he had called him up. He wonders why it hurts so much more than everything his body has been feeling all this while. ‘It’ being this distance between them—this growing distance that knows no limits.

Paul takes his hand, and he almost flinches away, defensive. He holds himself still though, the callouses in them a familiar comfort, reminding him of someone different but not quite, that he would rather not think about now. It's Paul.

His thumb moves over his knuckles with a considered softness, rubbing tenderness over them in gentle moves. George lets him, finds himself slumping down further into its softness, closing his eyes.

"I didn't," Paul starts, voice hushed and strangely pleading. He sounds half apologetic, and George thinks that's all he would get from Paul. "I didn't mean to be so horrible—"

"I know."

"I love you, Georgie. I always have. Even when—when…even then."

It's almost shocking, hearing him say that with so much reverence, as if this is his last resort to mend something entirely broken. George is not too sure, but he knows he'll never really be ready to say it the way Paul just did. He doesn't have the time to, he is afraid.

"Me too, Paul. Me too." You never really see that, though, he doesn't say.

"John….John, he never—"

"He loved you, Paul." George finds himself saying, because this is an easy admission. John loved a lot of people in his own odd ways, and he is too tired now, his bones too weary in his body to really question what else ties the three of them together so tightly that George could never run away from it, not even in death apparently.

"I... I love him, George." Paul's voice is thin, the words almost getting lost in the air after their utterance. "I still love him so much."

"I love him, too."

For what it's worth, that bit is quite true. George had loved them both enough that he could never speak of it, he knew if it escaped his body, it'd perish him. But now, his body is not worth so much, so half of a truth can stay in the mortal realm, with Paul—for his heart's satisfaction.