Work Text:
January, 1957.
George was lying in front of the fire, letting himself soak up the heat. He'd just trudged from his own home, all the way to John's, where the snowy outsides of an English winter fought his every step. It was a hard enough trek even in perfect conditions, but John had called him, which was a miracle in itself. He was asking him to come round and practice with him and Paul. Divine intervention, George had thought. In what universe has John ever shared his Paul?
For all his luck with John, it ran out as soon as he left his own house. Not even the thick layers of clothing could shelter him from the vicious wind and biting ice outside. He had to step out of his shoes, scarf, and coat before he even was let in, Mimi's fussing was so worriedly frantic he couldn't even think to say no. The way his clothes froze over and became clattered with snow made him feel cartoonish, but he couldn't bring himself to laugh. His body felt trapped in an ice layer that made it hard to even shiver. His nose burned from the frost and he held his hands out until the fire was less than an inch away from licking at his fingers.
He let himself melt away the cold like that until his arms ached from the effort of keeping his hands lifted to the fire. Dropping them down, he noticed the pinching feeling behind his eyes that only eased when they closed, and then George let himself drop those closed, too. He curled in on himself, subconsciously, and scooted forwards until his hip bumped against the fire guard. He hissed in pain, but quickly settled down.
He was vaguely aware that John and Paul were upstairs practising, the very thing he came all this way to do, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the burning heat of the fire. He's nearly certain Mimi had asked him something, but it was like he had a bubble over his head that made him unable to see, speak, or hear.
He reckons he's asleep now, or maybe dead. His body feels like it's floating, weightless, and cradled by a cold heat - the type of warmth that is solid and calm, blocking out the frosty air, but still too blunt to warm him up. He's nearly sure he's moving, but it's an impossible thought. His limbs are frozen to the floor, heavy as lead.
George can't bring himself to open his eyes, even through the confusion, until he's completely convinced he's falling, his heart jolting out of his chest and he flails. Previously immobile legs are kicking out and he's gasping and terrified and his eyes are snapping open. He catches sight of John, Buddy Holly glasses and all, with his arms stretched out in a way that makes it obvious he's the one who's just sacrificed George, but then the youngest sees Paul standing impishly next to John. Confusion bubbled up inside of George, because he could understand John's malicious intent, but Paul? However, George's thoughts became distracted when he bounced off something soft, pillowed, and warm instead of a deathly substance. Despite the plush material, he could feel his bones rattle under the force of himself. It hurt.
The pain was an overwhelming sting, an ache in his skin that made him think something had broken just then. He must have made an awful sound because Paul was scrambling over and shushing him, petting him with those warm hands. The elder had always ran much warmer than George could ever dream, but it made sense. Paul was like the sun, all encompassing, and George has always orbited around him. He was a lovely soul despite his recent attempts at seeming like a tough and mean ted. He thanked the bus driver getting off and on, and he apologised to chairs when he bumped into them.
John was less outwardly kind, one of those boys you were advised to stay away from for your own safety — and rightfully so; George's shoulders were often purple from the eldest boy's rough manhandling — but he was soft in his own way. He'd memorise the way you liked your tea, then have the perfect cup ready for when you walked through the door, and he even asked George for song advise! Though he'd not listen when the advise was to let him join the band.
Now, the two of them were pressing scalding hot hands to George's forehead and under his shirt, murmuring something frantic above him. Someone flicked his forehead and it throbbed something nasty, his eyes opening angrily. Paul's big, watery eyes were peering down at him. They were beautiful things, prettier than any girls, with dark lashes framing them like a royal painting. He heard John snort out a laugh and glanced down at him, confused. John patted his ankle reassuringly before standing.
"Right, he's delirious then. We'll have to warm him up before his brain freezes over completely."
"You telling me you don't think my eyes are pretty, Lennon?"
George frowned at that, barely able to follow the conversation through the frosty fog obscuring his ears, but he was offended on Paul's behalf. The boy was pretty, it was common knowledge. He'd been ridiculed since they were little for being too pretty, too many convinced he must be lying about being a boy because boys weren't pretty. But George thought that was such a fib, a shite one at that. Many boys were pretty, for example: both John and Paul, who were both grinning down at him now, terrifyingly enough.
"Isn't he cute," Paul cooed at him, his long fingers tickling and pinching at his waist.
"Very," John agreed, "Right, strip him down to his knickers, he needs skin to skin contact before he turns bright blue."
Paul saluted like a soldier, shoved at George until he was sat upright enough to yank off his sweater, undershirt, and vest. John whistled from George's feet, where he was busy pulling off his wet socks, and said something stupid about how many layers he had on. He then stood up and undid George's belt, whose mind only caught up when John tore his zipper down, and began to rid him of his damp jeans. He wildly kicked out again, though it was a weak thing, easily overpowered by Paul pressing his hips down with a shushing noise.
"Relax, Geo, we ain't pulling a queer on ye, not while you're like this, anyroad." Paul soothed, to which John raised his eyebrows. Paul grinned back, "Skin to skin, you said? Suppose we must lose some layers ourselves, then, don't you think?"
John smirked, finally pulling George's legs free of his jeans before standing up and ridding himself of his own. Committing to the bit, he pulled his sweater over his head and added it to the pile on the floor, leaving him only in his y-fronts and glasses, then clambered up onto his head and making a show of pulling George onto his chest. The performance was only dimmed by John's shuddering, "Jesus, he's so cold."
John shuffled around until his quilt was shoved down to his feet, and then he turned sideways so George was tucked into him, cold nose invading his neck and bony limbs poking at his skin. Paul found himself jealous, and rid himself of all his clothes, bar his own underwear, and dove at the bed, latching onto George's back. He pulled the quilt up, but huffed when he realised they took up too much space in the small bed for it to fit around them all.
"Johnny, scoot up a little, yeah, bring him with you, perfect. Thank you, John love." Paul directed, until John was propped up on a pillow with George practically sat in his lap. The poor thing was still shivering, so Paul made quick work of blanketing himself across his front, dragging the quilt over the three of them, finally.
After a bit of squirming, they relaxed into a comfortable position. John was slumped against the pillow, George half laid on top of him, half draped off to give Paul something to cuddle and hold on to. George's face was smothered into John's throat, and Paul into George's. It was heavy, the weight lying on John, but he found he didn't mind it. He quite liked it, even. He made a happy noise and sank further into the bed, watching the younger boys' chests rise and fall, a smile etching his lips. As if sensing his gaze, Paul looked up through his lashes, smirking knowingly.
George felt like he was on another planet, he wasn't sure how much time had passed like that, but he wasn't mad about it. For all his fussing when it came to being babied, he quite enjoyed this. He could feel a hand combing through his hair, and another set petting from his torso down to his thighs. He could feel his temperature raising back up to something somewhat normal, a buzzing sensation filling his skin as his nerves defrosted. His brain was still carving through the icy memories when his nose began to itch. He tried to shuffle away from the pair, for hygiene's sake, but John yanked him by his hips back down. His loss, George thought, as a sneeze built up inside him.
"John," His voice was ragged and shaky with disuse, but still a much higher pitch than the older two.
"Shhh, just relax. You'll be warm again-" John started, only to be cut off by a violent jolt and a wet sensation against his neck. He blinked, horrified, and Paul began to laugh. It was so awful that it quickly became comedic, even George's frozen bones rattled with laughter so forceful he had to hold onto John's shoulder to steady himself. The laughs calmed down to giggles soon enough, and George reached up to wipe at his throat until the slimy mixture was gone. He glanced up to John's shocked eyes and frowned, nose scrunching in a way that made him look even younger.
"I'm so sorry, Johnny, I tried to warn you," The youngest glumly replied to John's, assumably disgusted, silence.
Paul was still giggling to himself from where he was leeching on the two, and reached round to pat George's head, "Aw, don't mind him Georgie! Sure, he's the one who stole your lollypop straight from your mouth not too long ago — he's not the cleanest around."
Albeit reluctantly, George nodded and leaned back into Paul's hand, letting himself be guided back to their original position. Minutes pass, maybe hours, and George thinks he's finally back at a normal temperature when John finally speaks up.
"I don't care, you know, about germs and whatnot," He began.
"I should think so, you're the one who coughed directly in my face earlier," Paul piped up.
"Shut up, you git."
"Aye, sorry."
"What I mean, Georgie, is that I'm not upset, and you can stop your sulking, alright son?" The eldest finished, reaching up to ruffle the youngest's hair to, well, to annoy him, really. And it worked. He huffed out a breath and grumbled out a I'm not a child , but he relaxed into the eldest completely then. Tension seemed to melt out of his joints, almost as if the boy had deflated, but he was jolting upwards just as quick.
Both John and Paul jumped at the sudden movement, particularly concerned at George's brief pained and regretful expression, only to fight back a fond look when the younger boy crawled into John's lap. He organised himself and John until John was lying flat on his back (Thank God, his spine was beginning to ache) and George was curled up on top of the man. Together, George and John's nearly-naked bodies looked strangely perfect. Poetic, Paul was sure, and lyrics had already started to bounce across his mind at the scene of them together.
A frustrated groan trembled through George's body, pausing Paul's short-lasted stream of thoughts. George blinked at Paul expectantly. Paul blinked back.
George lost his patience first, "Jesus, John's right. You are a daft git," He huffed, "Come 'ere."
He reached forward to grab onto Paul's wrists and give a firm yank, Paul shuddering at his icicle fingers, and finally Paul was pulled into the two boys' embrace. Paul's nose collided with John's and the hysterical thought that they just eskimo kissed crossed his mind. Their faces were so close Paul could see the face flushed and pupils dilated in the reflection of John's glasses, and the way his eyes drifted down to John's narrow lips, how they were morphing into a grin. He glances up at that, and Paul hopes the darkness of the room is hiding how red his face has become, embarrassed at the prospect of being caught shamelessly ogling at his friend.
He has no such luck, and John cackles at his flustered expression. George jumps around on his chest for it, blinking blearily between the older two with an expression that means he's plotting. He adjusts the way he's lying on John to pull Paul closer against them and Paul's lips part in what would be an audible gasp, had they not met John's. The elder's grin is distinct through the kiss, only hindered by his tongue peeking through to swipe at Paul's lips, tasting the sweet, sugary tea lingering on his tongue. John's glasses press uncomfortably against his face, making him pull away with a wince.
George looks giddy beneath Paul, almost proud of himself, and between him and John's split slicked lips, Paul isn't sure where to look. John's glasses are crooked, the thick-rims slanted and dripping down onto one cheek. His tongue darted out to clean Paul's saliva off his mouth, and Paul's eyes followed the motion. George was beaming, his once freezing features flushed with something much more biting. His nimble fingers are fisting the fabric of Paul's boxers in a desperate attempt to draw him closer, to close the distance between him and John. His waistband is distended and if either of the two peaked down, they'd be able to catch a glimpse of his pubes and maybe even the root of his cock. It should have been a terrifying thought, and maybe it was beneath his confusion and lust.
Paul remains sturdy, doesn't give in to George's pleas, blinking owlishly. He'd been dreaming of situations like this for months now, years if you count the way George had captivated his thoughts since they were kids, but now that he was experiencing it, he was freezing up. John's hands were snaking around his waist, helping George to pull him closer.
"You want this, Macca?" John's tone was soft, inviting, a rare occasion. His lashes splayed onto his rosy cheeks and Paul just wanted to pull him in for another kiss. He shouldn't, he knows. The risk of this being a one time thing was too great, the opportunity to be hurt was too large. The others could see the want in his eyes, John's delighted smile inviting him closer while George's dexterous fingers meet Johns' to pet at his waist and hips.
"Now, hold on a minute- I won't do it just the once!" He exclaimed, pushing their teasing hands away.
"How'd ye mean, jus' the once?"
"I don't want to do this, and then we go back to normal," He paused, "Or, what if we do this now and then everything becomes awkward, y'know?"
John hummed, his hands dancing up to Paul's shoulders to give him a light shake before he cradled his face.
"Paulie, this will be anything but a one time thing if I can help it." He said it like it was obvious, and maybe it was.
George nodded in agreement, "I'll get frostbite everyday if it'll help you two get your shit together."
John snorted, "Us two? You're also part of the problem,"
George's face contorted in a way that made Paul giggle, the poor boy looked like he was desperately trying not to get too excited and was failing miserably.
John grinned at him, "Wha', ye thought ye was jus' playin' matchmaker fer us? Aren't you sweet."
"The sweetest!" Paul confirmed.
"But-"
"No!" John interrupted, "All three or nothin', else it'll be sad."
A cursory glance around told them that they all agreed, and John and Paul moved unanimously. John's strong arms lifted George off his stomach and onto the mattress. The two older boys were practically sat on top of him, there wasn't much room on the small bed, but they made it work.
John went straight for his throat, tonguing at the sharp join of his jaw, and Paul pestered hip lips with chaste kisses. The duality of Paul's innocent pecks and John's filthy licks left George gazing up at the ceiling, baffled. The position change had left him reeling, and part of him was still amazed that the elder two were including him at all.
Someone had begun to pluck at his nipple, and he startled with a moan. He would have curled in on himself had there not have been four hands pushing him down.
"Sensitive boy," John cooed.
"Always has been," Paul nodded, "Ticklish, like."
George furiously shook his head, "Am not!" But the argument didn't hold up when treacherous fingers brushed up to his armpits. He screeched out an awful noise and bucked away like it burned, not even the combined strength of John and Paul could keep him down. An elbow to the stomach made Paul stop, keeling over and gasping for mercy.
"Good lord, your elbows are sharp," He wheezed.
John sympathized, "Aye, those have met my balls before; I could hardly walk for days after."
"When did I elbow your balls?"
"You were sleeping, I think. Y'remember when you woke up 'cause ye fell off my bed a few weeks ago?"
George hummed out half an agreement, half an apology while he pulled Paul into a sitting position.
"Truce?" Paul begged.
"Truce." They echoed.
They shared a few kisses then, and despite George being very eager to watch, he didn't complain when they doted on him instead.