Chapter Text
George doesn't hate Paul. No, he could never.
But he hates the way Paul is taller than him, it gives him leverage, a reason to treat him like a pupil even with a small age difference of eight months. Paul is blessed with genes that make him look his age, unlike George. Not only is he the baby of the Harrison household, but has to deal with being smaller than his peers. No amount of glasses of milk in the morning could make him grow a few inches to catch up to Paul.
Paul is alright, George thinks. He is fat and friendly, gifted with a soulful voice and musical hands. And did he like to show off only to act flustered when George's mom asked him to sing in front of his family. George hates that too, the unwanted attention Paul draws to him and humbly rejects, as if he is not worthy when he clearly dies for it.
But Paul is kind, he rides the bus with him every morning to school and when they sneak out to play at parties, Paul makes sure George gets home safely. And he hates that too, the unspoken overprotection and how he can't escape it nor reject it. They don't say anything when the bus drives past Paul's stop, he just watches the raindrops on the window and the purple sunset that reflects on Paul's complexion.
Sometimes George can't help but stare at people, whether it is a girl he fancies or a random person on the street he finds odd. Paul is hard not to look at, not only is he tall and broad, but he is beautiful, not handsome, but precious. George hates it as well, the way Paul's dark raven hair quiffs and stays up effortlessly, the way his eyelashes curl like if it were a girl's, the blush on his nose and cheeks recently exposed to the cold air. George despises it because he can't help but stare. But Paul rarely looks back and George hates that too.
When they stop, Paul gets off with George and they walk to his house. Paul follows the familiar road with hands buried in the pocket of his blazer, George realizes he is staring again and looks back at the road.
“We need to make money off this, y'know, me da' is begging me to get a job.”
George understands, his family struggles as well and money is tight sometimes. George appreciates Paul's family driven nature, one of his positive characteristics. The loyalty and devotion to his loved ones.
Paul's head is down and George can't help but feel sorry for him, the furrow of his thin brows reflecting his inner anxiety. George wants to help.
“I got an idea.” He says.
Paul looks at him with an eyebrow raised. George can tell he is skeptical but when they reach George's doorstep, he tells Paul to meet him tomorrow morning at the bus stop with his guitar and Paul doesn't question it.
Several hours later they are far from home, in the outskirts of town. George's plan is simple, he heard from a friend of a friend that rural pubs always looked for cheap entertainment for the night and George thought his guitar skills along with Paul's vocals would do the trick. George likes that Paul didn't hesitate, that put his trust into his hands.
When they find a pub willing to accommodate two disheveled youngsters, they play their hearts out, to the point George feels the healed guitar strings scars about to open up and start bleeding again. He feels a certain kind of nervousness, of having drunk eyes on him but when Paul raises his eyebrows at him and grins, George finds his groove and lets Paul's sonorous singing carry them away. When they are done, they sit down for a drink and a hot meal.
“D'ye think we should get going?” George asks after chugging down the content of his glass. The cold beer soothing his vocal chords.
Paul stretches his neck to look outside the window behind George then shakes his head.
“'S too late. We won't be able to make it.”
Paul sucks his fingers, probably savoring the remains of his food. George watches as his lips close around his index finger and has to look away when he realizes what he is doing. He is grateful Paul doesn't notice it.
George pats his pockets and takes out the little money they got paid. He realizes if they spend it on a bed plus the travel back home they will be left with nothing and the journey would be useless.
“We don't have enough.”
“We'll be okay.”
Out of the many things he dislikes, Paul's confidence is not one of them. In fact, he appreciates it. It makes him feel safe and cared for when Paul is not being patronizing. So when the night falls on them and they have nowhere to sleep, George is glad he is with Paul.
They crash on a field after a long walk. The pebbled streets are too threatening so they opt for a soft bed of grass. George finds it comfortable, better than sleeping on the pavement, but there is one big problem: it's freezing cold, the unkind weather is not meant to camp outside. And George quickly understands it as he feels his fingers too frozen to move. He blows hot air on them but the air turns cold as soon as it exits his mouth.
Next to him, Paul is seemingly calm, expressionless and George would think he isn't freezing his balls off if it wasn't for the intense pink of his nose and cheeks. Paul is blessed with body fat for moments like this, unlike George's scrawny body. He hates that too.
They both lie down, using their small backpacks as tough pillows. George hugs himself as an attempt to preserve body heat but it doesn't work, he ends up shivering instead.
“We need to share heat, come closer.” Paul says.
George scoots closer to his body and their arms touch but George feels no relief.
“I'm still cold.”
Paul sucks his teeth and shuffles next to him, moving to his side with his face facing George completely.
“C'mere. Turn around.” Paul orders and George looks at him and furrows his eyebrows, not understanding why is Paul stretching his arms at him like he's about to hug him. “D'ye wanna freeze? C'mon!”
Paul cocks his head, inviting George. And he hates how persuasive Paul can be, because he finds himself turning around with his back against Paul's chest. He wants to complain, say something sarcastic but Paul’s body heat is doing wonders for his temperature, he almost sighs at the relief.
It's not like George isn't used to fraternal touching, he has three older siblings, he is used to being snuggled and cared for, but there is something about Paul being like this that makes his heartbeat race. He knows Paul has a younger sibling as well but he doesn't see him hugging Mike the way they are wrapped with each other.
Maybe Paul can sense George's restraint because he wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him closer, to the point George feels his breath on the back of his neck. They are already so close transferring body heat, to the point George can feel Paul's chest move up and down with every breath. He swallows hard, afraid to move.
“There.” Paul whispers. “Much better, right Georgie?”
“Yeah.” George answers with a brittle tone of voice.
“Now rest. Good night.”
George wants to pull back, push Paul away and call out his bullshit, but he doesn't. It feels nice and he hates to admit it. The tiredness wins and he yawns, feeling his muscles relax.
“Night.”
*
George wakes up when the sun hits his face and a rooster cries close by. He realizes he slept throughout the whole night, and didn't even move positions. Well, how could he? Paul has a tight hold around his waist and by the sound of his breathing, George can only assume he is still asleep. But he needs to move, his bladder needs release and he's starving. He tries to free himself, slowly lifting Paul's arm but he only grips him tighter, bringing him even closer.
“Fuckin' hell.” George mutters.
Not only does he have to deal with Paul's arm digging on his empty stomach but also his knee pressing on his butt. George looks down, looking for Paul's bent knee to straighten it up only to find it's completely parallel to his.
It can't be — George thinks.
He scoffs and breaks free from Paul's embrace, not even caring if it wakes him up. One thing is to use him as a human blanket but other thing is to have his hard-on pressing on him. He's had enough.
Paul's eyes flutter as he starts to wake up, blissfully unaware of the embarrassing situation. Once his eyes fully open, he blinks and stretches his body.
“G'morning.” He rasps, his voice low and soft
“Morning.” George answers through his teeth. He is sitting down fumbling through his backpack, searching for nothing. He looks to avoid Paul's gentle eyes.
Paul sits down as well and George stares again. He often does when he knows Paul won't look. His eyes glide down to his pants where the visible erection protrudes. As in cue, Paul realizes what is going on and tries to cover it with quick hands.
“Fuck.” He whispers. “Need to piss.”
George watches the crimson on his pale face and he feels a slight satisfaction seeing the ever-confident Macca embarrassed. But the feeling of shame inside George overpowers it. It's shame mixed with something else George can't quite figure out but he brushes it off before he can dwell on it too much, before it turns into something he can't face or accept.
“Yeah me too.” George says, perhaps too quickly, gets up and walks in the opposite direction.
And when they travel back home, they don't talk about it. Not during breakfast, not while riding the bus back home. They mention their gig, count their money, talk about music and school and that's it.
George is surprised when Paul misses his stop and walks him home. And when George's mom opens the door and embraces George tightly, Paul lifts his chin and mutters a see ye . George only waves.
Up in his room, George dwells on it and he hates himself for it. He starts to wish they had talked about it, not to have a deep philosophical discussion about teenage hard-ons, but to have something with Paul. Something he can tease him with, something they can laugh about, something just between the two of them. But he doesn't sulk, he realizes he only just met Paul, they get along well and if they continue hitchhiking out of town to make money, they will soon have something. And it'll be just the two of them.
*
One summer afternoon drinking tea after a jam session, Paul tells George he met someone. At first, he thinks Paul is talking about a girl by the way his eyes shine like the sunlight coming in through the curtains. Only to realize he is talking about some bloke named John he met at a church fete. George wonders what's so grandiose about him.
“He has a band, y'know. He's good— they're good. I think they want me.” Paul says lifting up the tea cup at mouth level.
George nods. He is happy for Paul, he's ambitious, he always wants more and more, a band is the right place for him. As long as he stays front and center.
Paul nibbles on his nail and lays his back on the sofa, legs crossed. George can tell he is going around in circles in his mind.
“They'd be stupid to not let you in.” George reassures.
Then, Paul shifts again, and now he has his elbows on his knees, leaning forward as if he is trying to talk to George closely.
“If I get in, I can let you in Geo. Wouldn't that be great?”
George is flattered by Paul's excitement but he has a band already with two of his mates. Besides, he is not quite sure how John's band sounds to even want to be in.
“Don't they have a guitarist?”
“Yeah, John plays the guitar and he's alright but the other one's shit. You're so much better.”
George smirks and looks down. He drinks from his tea to keep himself busy, to distract himself from the tingling feeling inside him.
“Alright, then.”
George finds out Paul got in the band by a phone call two weeks later. He hears Paul smiling through the line, trying to act nonchalant, as if it doesn't mean the world to him. George grins, not helping himself. But his smirk turns into a smile when he hears Paul's dreamy voice.
“We're gonna make it, Georgie. You'll see. We're gonna make it.”
*
It's been a few months and George still hasn't met this famous John Paul can't stop talking about. Paul says he lives far from the area, on the nicer side of town but somehow Paul always manages to be with John when George drops by his house to jam.
George doesn't care, Paul has a new band and George is busy with his own group. He barely misses Paul, not even on weekends when homework is a drag and he needs musical distraction. He sees him everyday on the way to school anyway and they chat about music but when the classes are over, Paul doesn't invite him back to his house and George never pushes.
One morning George rides the bus with Paul and he looks anxious, moving his leg up and down, looking outside the window. It's not until they reach the bus stop that George realizes what's going on.
“Are you coming?” He asks when he notices Paul doesn't get up from the seat.
“Nah, I'm meeting John today.”
George raises his thick eyebrows. Paul is skipping school. He thinks about the fit his dad is going to have once he finds out, but he brushes it off.
“Alright, see ye.”
“Wait— Can I come over later? I got something to show ye.” Paul says as he removes his school tie.
George can't help his responsive heart but he controls himself.
“Yeah, see ye then.”
Paul nods and George leaves the bus not knowing what to think of the situation. Nevertheless he doesn't dig holes in it, Paul always comes over, not a big deal.
Except George can't stop thinking about it and he finds himself moving his legs up and down like Paul does. He desperately wants to go home and play with Paul, it's been weeks and his fingers ache for the sting of the strings. He hates to admit he misses Paul's company as well. He is alright, really. Alright guitar player, wonderful voice.
When school is over George practically runs out of the premises to the bus stop, ignoring the calls from his friends. He is not excited, he just needs to get himself in order. Take a bath and tune his guitar. Maybe do his homework, yes, he should. If he doesn't he won't hear the end of it from his mom.
And he does. Scrubs himself clean, solves a few math problems and tunes his guitar. When he's done he tells his mother to make tea for them and he just waits. He looks at the clock and he knows Paul might come around soon. But minutes turn into hours and the sun sets, the tea gets cold and George is sitting in his room strumming his guitar watching the twilight from his window.
He is not sad, why would he? He is angry Paul made him waste his time. He is furious, are they even friends anymore? Paul is not the one to bail on him, he rarely does but with his new friends, or dare he say friend , George is not sure he knows Paul anymore. He is not sad. He leaves his guitar aside, removes his clothes and pulls the bed cover over him. He is not sad, not even when a few tears spill from his eyes and cloud his vision. George hates it, the sunken feeling in his chest and he hates Paul too.
The next morning George wakes up to a long thud on his bedroom door. It startles him but ignores it until it doesn't stop and it's clear somebody wants to come in
“Come in!” George groans, his face mushed against the pillow.
The door opens and Paul storms in, with a guitar on his hand. George jumps, and he is now wide awake and conscious of his lack of clothes under the covers.
“Rise and shine, Georgie!” Paul sings.
George scoffs and sits down, making sure to stay covered from the waist down. He rubs his eyes to confirm this isn't a dream and Paul is really sitting down on his chair.
“What are you doing here?” George rasps. His throat is hoarse and desperately needs a glass of water.
“Told ye I was coming, didn't I?”
Yesterday. George thinks. He wants to call him a shit friend and kick him out but the way Paul looks at him with kind hazel eyes stops him. Paul doesn't say he is sorry yet George believes his eyes express it. Or that's what he tells himself.
“Yeah.” He says instead feeling the anger build up in his throat which he swallows and begs it stays buried.
“I wanted to show ye something.” Paul says, putting his guitar in position.
“Go ahead.”
George hears the guitar chords and a few lyrics and here and there but he is not listening, he is watching Paul, his tall boyish figure hunched over, his neck stretched to look at the chords he is playing, his mouth forming around the words he sings.
“ ...I'll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you'll be true to me.”
George is hypnotized, the dry tears on his face hardening.
“What d'ya think?” Paul asks, biting his lip. “Would you help me finish it? I need help with the arrangement.”
George finds himself backed against a corner and hates Paul for it because he knows what he is doing. He'd do anything for him.
So he says yes and accepts the bird in his teeth, forgetting about his sunken stinging eyes and sandpaper throat.
And they don't talk about it. The tension dissolves with every chord Paul plays.
*
George manages to get in the band by his own accords. Although he gives credit to Paul for putting a good word, George knows John is impressed by his guitar playing skills, no matter how many funny remarks he makes about his height and age or how many times Paul throws his head back laughing. George has never seen him laugh like that before.
George is sure Paul thought he would be intimidated by John and George can see why, but he is not one to be easily frightened. John is tall, almost as tall as Paul, but he is thinner and his curled hair auburn like the autumn leaves. George understands what Paul might think, John always squints when he looks at you, so you might assume he is judging you but what George finds later is that John has myopia and hates using glasses. John is quick-witted but George keeps up, never taking offense to his teasing. He also dresses like a teddy boy, although his middle class origins say otherwise.
Once George meets John he realizes why Paul has been looking slightly different. His pants are now tighter around his calves and his overall look becomes disheveled, effortless. His hair is even quiffed differently than before, resembling John's bouncier hair and stepping away from George's more neat hairdo.
But he realizes that not only do they share similar styles but also something that George can't seem to penetrate. When they'd walk down a narrow street, John and Paul would walk ahead of him, immersed in their chat while George would patiently stroll down behind them, his guitar case in his hand, his heart inside his chest too heavy to keep going. Paul would turn around, almost to check on him and offer him a wink that would make his mouth bitter but would give him the necessary strength to carry on.
Even while performing, Paul would glance at him, rewarding him with encouraging grins whenever he wasn't looking at John. George hates to admit it, but it gives him some sort of confidence, knowing that Paul is gleeful that he is always by his side, always crammed together in a van, or a tiny bed. Or George's favorite— when they are singing into the same mic, their breaths becoming one, voices in sync. George despises the feeling inside when their cheeks brush and the way his knees feel like jelly when Paul meets his gaze. But he likes singing with Paul, harmonizing the songs, doing backing vocals to his melodious voice, his fingers doing wonders during a guitar solo while Paul —and John— watch him amazed.
Paul and John are idiots, George thinks. But they are talented ambitious idiots and when they tell him they are going to record the song George and Paul wrote together with John as the singing lead, George is elated. He barely sleeps the night before, tossing and turning, wishing the sun made its appearance sooner. George loves the idea of having their first on record, making them a real band in his eyes. But the song being a Harrison-McCartney creation, makes his heart explode with fondness. He is proud of it, like if it was his baby. His and Paul's baby.
When the morning comes, George eats a quick breakfast and dresses as fast as he can, never forgetting the extra care his quiff needs. He meets Paul at the bus stop and they ride the bus to John's area. John guides them to the small run-down recording studio where they get together their savings and pay for the session. The three of them settle in front of the mic—George, John and Paul in that order—, with one of John's friends playing a small drum kit behind them.
George doesn't want to admit he is nervous. He is aware his vocals aren't as skilled as Paul's and he doesn't want to ruin the only chance they got, but as always and unknowingly Paul is there for him with a confident stance and a encouraging look, so he sings and harmonizes and plays, and feels the lyrics, slowly realizing he poured his heart out into the making of this.
“In spite of all the heartache that you may cause me” he sings and he means it, because he is willing to go with Paul to the finish line, even if it kills him.
The realization of being too deep into this hits him like a violent wave of salt water but he doesn't back down, he stands his ground with his eyes on the bright future ahead of them.
He looks over at Paul to see if he can find the same drive in him, the same compromise but Paul is not looking at him, his eyes are set on John's profile. And George's heart drops and shatters and the wave of determination and hope transforms into dread and heartache.
Paul is singing straight at John. The lyrics he wrote with George in his room at 11 in the morning, they are for John. Even though George has never seen Paul looking dazed while staring at someone he recognizes that same look from strangers he watches while on the bus, from the couples walking in the park together. George has a habit of staring, and in this moment he wishes he could gauge his eyes out yet he doesn't stop looking.
All of the sudden, rage fills his mind and he wishes he could tell them to fuck off and storm out of the session, but there still more lyrics to go and he is not sure he can handle it anymore, if he can stand there and watch Paul transform they only thing between them into something else, into something that he is not part of. When they are done, it feels like the air is sucked out of his lungs and he takes a deep breath. He wants to call Paul pathetic at the way his cheeks are colored, call him a daft queer but he is not brave enough and not willing to get punched in the jaw.
Just like that, Paul had destroyed the only thing that linked both of them and the pieces are floating, lingering in the air like dust and ash but only George can see them because John and Paul are too busy looking inwards, staring at each other, having something.