Chapter Text
"Right, listen up, you lot!"
Paul burst into the room with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and the other hand moving constantly as if he couldn’t quite keep himself still, his excitement filling the space before he even properly stopped moving.
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw John’s head snap up the second he heard Paul’s voice, his pencil clattering onto the table as whatever he’d been half-doing a moment ago was immediately abandoned in favour of paying attention to Paul.
George set his guitar aside without much ceremony.
“I’ve got lyrics,” Paul announced, “bit soppy maybe, but lyrics all the same. Johnny, have you sorted those notes yet?”
George caught the familiar twitch in Lennon’s cheek at that, the one that usually meant he was trying not to admit something out loud.
John hated disappointing Paul.
“Not quite, love,” he said instead, flashing that crooked grin of his. “Workin’ on it. Georgie here tried to rescue me, but I’m a lost cause.”
It wasn’t entirely unfair, really.
They’d spent the better part of three hours trying to find a chord pattern that actually worked, though in practice that meant John disappearing outside for half of it with a cigarette while George stayed inside eating crackers and occasionally strumming something that didn’t quite fit.
Still, they had tried.
“Well, never mind,” Paul said at once, already stepping forward like the problem had been solved the moment he walked in. “Good thing I’ve come to save the day.”
George couldn’t help noticing, not for the first time, how quickly Paul seemed to forget he was in the room the moment John was there in front of him, the way his attention locked so completely onto Lennon that everything else faded slightly into the background.
The way his voice changed, too, carrying that faint edge of anticipation that George never quite knew what to do with.
He didn’t mind it, not really.
Even if he’d known Paul first.
There was something between Paul and John that didn’t really have a clear shape to it, something that felt different from ordinary friendship, even different from the kind of closeness George had always had with Paul himself.
Something that didn’t quite include him, even when he was standing right there.
“Right then,” George said at last, mostly to himself as much as to anyone else, pushing himself up. “I’ll go find Pete.”
Neither of them really reacted to him leaving.
They were already bent over the table together again, shoulders almost touching as they studied Paul’s scribbled notes, completely absorbed in whatever new idea had just taken over the room.
For a while now, George had suspected there was something going on between them. He wasn't sure exactly what, and he certainly wasn't about to start making assumptions that could end up offending somebody, but they spent an awful lot of time together and seemed closer than most friends he knew, even before the band. Ever since they'd started playing together, though, it had become harder to ignore.
Not that he wanted to think about it too much.
More importantly, he definitely didn't want to know the answer.
So he left them to it and headed downstairs.
They were at John's place, which meant Mimi and whichever of her friends happened to be visiting were occupying the front room. George didn't mind them. They were pleasant enough, made proper tea, always seemed to have something good to eat, and unlike most adults they didn't complain when the boys spent hours making noise with guitars and half-finished songs.
That alone made them better company than most people.
He liked being at John's.
Right now, though, he had a headache coming on and wasn't in the mood for conversation, so he slipped quietly through the kitchen and out the back door before anybody could stop him.
The evening had already settled over Liverpool. The sky was dark and heavy with clouds, and the air carried that familiar feeling that usually meant rain wasn't far away. George shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered down the street without much of a destination in mind.
He could go home.
The thought lasted all of two seconds before he dismissed it.
Home wasn't exactly somewhere he was eager to be these days.
Besides, the atmosphere upstairs had become impossible. Whatever existed between Paul and John seemed to fill every corner of the room whenever they got like that, and George always ended up feeling as though he'd accidentally walked into the middle of a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear.
A few doors down, a club caught his eye.
It wasn't somewhere he'd planned on going, but it was getting late enough that wandering the streets would start attracting questions, and he wasn't particularly interested in going back to Mendips either.
Might as well.
Inside, a band was playing.
The music wasn't bad. Loud, energetic, decent enough rhythm.
The singer, unfortunately, was terrible.
He was practically shouting into the microphone, missing notes left and right while somehow remaining convinced he sounded brilliant.
The drummer, on the other hand, was excellent.
George found himself listening to him more than the rest of the band combined.
He worked his way through the crowd, keeping an eye out for familiar faces while quietly hoping nobody would decide to question his age. There hadn't been anyone checking at the door, but he'd only turned eighteen a month ago and still occasionally looked younger than that.
"Georgie, lad!"
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
George jumped and spun around automatically, half-expecting a bouncer or policeman.
Instead, it was Pete.
"What're you doin' here?" Pete asked. "Thought you and Johnny were busy bein' musical geniuses or somethin'."
George snorted.
"Don't let Paul hear you say that. He showed up, John forgot the rest of us exist, I got bored and wandered off. What about you? Know anybody here?"
Looking Pete over, George tried to determine how drunk he was.
The answer appeared to be fairly.
His shirt was hanging open, his hair looked as though he'd fought a losing battle with a hurricane, and his eyes had that sleepy, unfocused look George had seen many times before.
"A few birds."
Pete gestured vaguely into the crowd.
"Wanna meet 'em?"
"Not particularly."
Pete raised an eyebrow.
George immediately looked away.
He wasn't interested in that conversation.
Paul already knew enough about his preferences to make him nervous, and Paul told John everything eventually. Pete, though, wasn't part of that circle. Pete wasn't close enough to know things George preferred to keep to himself.
"I was actually lookin' for you," George said instead. "Paul and John'll probably be done soon."
It wasn't exactly true.
But it wasn't exactly a lie either.
Pete shrugged.
"Well, I don't fancy leavin'. I'm havin' a good time. Maybe we should drag the others here. They're lookin' for somewhere to play later anyway."
"Maybe."
George glanced back toward the stage.
"Go find 'em if you want. They're at Mimi's. There's someone I want to talk to."
Pete made a few jokes at George's expense—mostly concerning girls, experience, and various subjects George had no interest in discussing—before disappearing back into the crowd.
George didn't feel particularly guilty about lying to him.
Pete lied more often than he did, and usually with less success.
Once he'd gone, George settled onto one of the worn sofas against the wall and turned his attention back to the dance floor.
There were plenty of girls about.
Most people probably would've called them pretty.
George couldn't bring himself to care.
Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any particularly interesting lads around either.
So he sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the room, not even bothering to get himself a drink.
The band currently on stage wasn't giving him much to work with. Three chords, repeated endlessly, with all the imagination of wet cardboard.
George was halfway through mentally rewriting their entire set when the sofa dipped beside him.
He turned automatically, expecting Pete, or perhaps John and Paul finally tracking him down.
Instead he found himself looking at somebody he'd never seen before.
Big blue eyes.
A strong nose.
Dark wavy hair sticking up in several directions at once as though it had decided not to cooperate with gravity.
George blinked.
Then blinked again.
The stranger looked back at him with mild confusion, clearly wondering why he'd suddenly become the centre of such intense attention.
Without entirely understanding why he was doing it, George shifted to face him properly.
"George Harrison."
He stuck out a hand.
Immediately he wondered whether he'd lost his mind.
The lad stared at him for a second.
Then another.
George began regretting the decision almost instantly.
Maybe he'd been too obvious.
Maybe he'd interrupted something.
Maybe—
A small smile appeared at the corner of the stranger's mouth.
He took George's hand.
"Richard."
His accent was different from George's. Still Liverpool, but softer somehow.
George suddenly realised he had absolutely no idea what to say next.
Which was unfortunate.
Because now that he'd actually got the fellow's attention, all he could think about was how nice that smile was.
Not flashy.
Not practiced.
Just easy.
The sort of smile that made somebody's whole face seem warmer.
"You're a musician."
The words escaped before George could stop them.
Richard laughed.
"That a question or a diagnosis?"
George finally remembered to let go of his hand.
"Just a guess."
"Go on, then."
Richard leaned back into the sofa, clearly entertained.
"Tell me how you worked it out."
George glanced down at his hands.
There were rings on his little finger and ring finger, silver catching the dim light whenever he moved. His fingers were too soft for guitar strings, but the base of them carried the sort of wear musicians always seemed to have.
"Not guitar."
Richard nodded thoughtfully.
"No?"
"No. Fingers are too soft."
"Fair."
"Too many rings as well."
That earned a proper laugh.
Richard looked down at his hands.
"You know, nobody's ever criticised my jewellery before."
"I'm not criticising."
"You absolutely are."
"Maybe a little."
Richard laughed again.
George found himself smiling despite himself.
"So what's your verdict, then?"
George shrugged.
"Drummer."
Richard pointed at him dramatically.
"There he is."
"Was I right?"
"You were."
George looked pleased enough with himself that Richard laughed all over again.
"Go on," Richard said. "Now guess my age."
"Oh, come off it."
"No, really."
"You've got one of those faces."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you could be nineteen or forty."
Richard stared at him.
Then burst out laughing so hard he nearly doubled over.
"That's the worst answer I've ever heard."
Richard was still laughing when George realised, slightly too late, that he was still holding his hand in conversation without meaning to. He let go quickly, clearing his throat as if that would fix anything.
Richard didn’t seem bothered at all.
If anything, he looked amused in a way that made George even more aware of him.
“You play then?” George asked, partly to recover, partly because he genuinely wanted to know.
“Drums,” Richard said, like it was obvious. “Been banging on things since I was a kid. Drives my mum mad.”
George nodded, then glanced at his hands again without really meaning to. The rings caught the light when Richard moved, and there was something about the contrast between the soft ease of him and the fact he was a drummer that didn’t quite fit George’s expectations in a way he found oddly interesting.
“The band you were on just now,” George said. “Singer’s awful.”
Richard groaned immediately, leaning his head back against the sofa as if this was a conversation he had been forced to have many times before.
“Aye, tell me about it,” he said. “But you don’t exactly turn down gigs when they come, do you? Not when you’ve got nothin’ else lined up.”
There was a shrug in his voice, casual but not careless, more like someone used to making things work as they were rather than as he wanted them to be.
George found that he liked that answer more than he expected to.
“What about you then?” Richard asked, tipping his head slightly to look at him properly. “You look like a guitar lad. Am I right?”
George hesitated.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Electric. We’ve got a little band going on.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Beat group sort of thing. Me, Paul McCartney, John Lennon—”
Richard’s eyebrows lifted at that.
“Wait,” he cut in. “John Lennon?”
George frowned slightly.
“Yeah?”
Richard gave a low whistle, like he’d just put something together.
“I’ve heard that name.”
“Everyone’s heard that name,” George muttered.
“No, I mean properly,” Richard said, leaning forward a bit now, suddenly more interested. “At the clubs, you know? People talk. That’s Lennon, isn’t it? The mouthy one.”
George couldn’t help it, he snorted a little.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“And McCartney,” Richard continued, like he was tasting the name. “That’s the one who thinks he’s in charge of everything, right?”
George laughed properly at that.
“Yeah, that’s also him.”
Richard grinned like he was pleased with himself for getting it right.
“And you?” he asked, settling back again, eyes flicking over George with a kind of casual curiosity that didn’t feel invasive, just… interested. “Which one are you?”
George hesitated again, then shrugged.
“The quiet one, I suppose.”
Richard looked at him for a second like he was deciding whether that made sense, then nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”
That should’ve annoyed him, George thought, being summed up like that by someone he’d just met.
But it didn’t.
It just sat there comfortably.
Richard reached into his pocket then, pulling out a packet of cigarettes as if this was all completely normal, offering one to George without asking too many questions. George took it, and Richard lit his first before leaning in again to light his.
This time George didn’t flinch when he came close.
“You’re young, aren’t you?” Richard asked after a moment, smoke curling between them.
“I’m eighteen,” George said. “Just.”
Richard looked mildly impressed.
“Eighteen,” he repeated. “Christ. I’ve got socks older than you.”
George huffed a laugh.
“How old are you then?”
“Twenty-one,” Richard said easily. “Practically ancient.”
George looked at him properly at that, trying to imagine three years making that much difference, and failed.
“You don’t look it,” he said.
Richard smirked slightly.
“That’s because I’m full of wisdom.”
“That what you call it?”
“What would you call it then?”
George thought about it for half a second.
“Luck.”
Richard laughed again, and this time George noticed something about the way he laughed too, like he didn’t hold anything back when something amused him, like it just came out of him without hesitation.
It made him feel strangely lighter sitting next to him.
Across the room, the music changed slightly, the band shifting into something louder, messier, and George barely registered it until Richard suddenly straightened a little.
“Oi,” Richard said, nodding towards the dance floor. “You lot dance in that band of yours or do you just stand there looking moody all night?”
“We don’t really dance,” George admitted.
“Pity,” Richard said immediately, like that was unacceptable information. “You look like you should be dragged into it.”
“I’m not a good dancer.”
“That’s alright,” Richard said, already standing up. “Neither am I.”
George looked up at him.
“You dance?”
“I move,” Richard corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Then, without waiting for agreement, he held out his hand.
George stared at it for a second longer than he should’ve, then took it.
And Richard pulled him up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
George didn’t really have time to think before Richard had already pulled him up, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like there wasn’t even a question about whether he’d agree or not. He found himself standing almost too close, close enough to feel the warmth of him properly now, the noise of the club suddenly feeling a bit further away than it had a moment ago.
“I told you I don’t dance,” George said, though it came out weaker than he intended.
“That’s alright,” Richard said simply, like that solved everything. “Neither do I, really. I just move about a bit and hope nobody notices.”
“That doesn’t sound very reassuring.”
“It’s honest, though.”
And then, before George could come up with anything clever in return, Richard had already started moving, not pulling him in aggressively or anything like that, just holding onto his hand still, loose but steady, like he wasn’t planning on letting go unless George actually pulled away.
So George didn’t.
The music was nothing special, still that same kind of messy beat from the stage, but Richard seemed to take it seriously in a way that was almost funny, like he was listening to something completely different from everyone else in the room. He shifted his weight, then tugged George slightly into movement too, not really a dance so much as a shared attempt at not standing still.
George found, somewhat annoyingly, that it wasn’t as awkward as he expected.
“You always just stand there analysing things?” Richard asked suddenly, leaning a bit closer so he could be heard over the noise.
“I’m not analysing anything.”
“You are,” Richard said, grinning. “You’ve got that face.”
“What face?”
“That ‘I’m thinking about whether this is worth doing’ face.”
George opened his mouth, then shut it again, because that was uncomfortably accurate.
Richard laughed at that, like he’d won something.
“See?” he said. “There it is again.”
George shook his head slightly, trying not to smile, which only made it worse, because Richard immediately looked more pleased with himself, like that reaction confirmed something he’d already decided.
They moved together a bit more easily after that, not properly dancing in any organised sense, just drifting in time with the music and occasionally bumping into other people who were doing the same thing. At one point Richard let go of George’s hand just long enough to spin him slightly in place, not really a proper turn, more like a careless idea he decided to try out, and George actually laughed before he could stop himself, because it was ridiculous and didn’t make any sense and somehow still worked.
When Richard caught his hand again, it was like nothing had happened.
“You’re not as bad at this as you look,” Richard said.
“That’s meant to be a compliment, is it?”
“I think so,” Richard replied thoughtfully. “Not sure yet.”
George huffed a quiet laugh, and for a moment he forgot to overthink it.
Across the room, he vaguely registered movement near the entrance, voices cutting through the music in a way that didn’t belong to the club. He didn’t look properly at first, too caught up in the fact that Richard was still holding his hand like it was the easiest thing in the world, but then the voices got closer, more familiar, and suddenly he did turn his head.
John first, slightly dishevelled, looking like he’d just been dropped into the middle of the night without much planning. Paul just behind him, more composed, eyes already scanning the room like he was looking for something specific.
And then they spotted him.
Or more accurately, they spotted Richard, because the change in their expressions was almost immediate, like they’d both clocked the same thing at the same time and were now trying to decide what to make of it.
“George!” John called, making his way over with that slightly unsteady confidence he always had when he’d had a bit too much to drink. “There you are, we were lookin’ everywhere for you, Pete said you’d gone off—”
He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Richard properly.
Paul arrived a second later, taking in the same sight, the same close distance, the same hands still loosely connected like neither of them had thought to separate them yet.
There was a short pause, the kind that always felt longer than it actually was.
Then John grinned.
“Oh,” he said, slowly. “Alright.”
Paul’s eyes flicked between them once, then again, a bit more carefully this time.
“Who’s this then?” he asked, though his tone wasn’t unfriendly, just curious in that way he had when something didn’t fit neatly into his expectations.
George suddenly became very aware of everything again at once.
The hand he was still holding.
The way Richard didn’t seem remotely bothered by being stared at.
And the fact that he had absolutely no idea how to explain any of it.
Richard, however, looked completely unbothered.
He just gave them a small nod, still half-smiling, like this was all perfectly normal.
“Alright,” he said easily. “I’m Richard.”
Then, after a beat, like it was an afterthought that somehow mattered:
“But most people call me Ringo.”
John’s grin lingered for a moment longer than necessary, like he’d found something amusing about the whole situation that nobody else was quite in on yet. Paul, on the other hand, was still looking between George and Richard with a kind of careful attention, the sort he used when he was quietly trying to work out how something might fit into place later on.
“Alright then,” John said eventually, dragging the words out as he rocked slightly on his heels. “Didn’t realise you’d been making new friends while we were gone, Georgie.”
“It just happened,” George said, which wasn’t really an explanation, but it was all he had.
Richard didn’t seem bothered by any of it. If anything, he looked like he found the whole thing faintly entertaining, standing there as if being assessed by strangers in a club was just another normal part of the evening.
Paul stepped forward a little, offering a polite smile.
“I’m Paul,” he said. “Paul McCartney.”
Richard nodded once, like he already knew the name but was happy to acknowledge it properly now.
“I know,” he said. “You lot are everywhere round here.”
There wasn’t any particular awe in his voice, just a matter-of-fact sort of recognition, and George noticed Paul react to that almost instantly, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to be pleased or slightly offended.
John laughed under his breath.
“See? Famous already, Paul.”
“Oh, shut up,” Paul muttered automatically, though he was still watching Richard.
George, meanwhile, had the slightly uncomfortable feeling that he’d somehow introduced two different worlds to each other without meaning to, and wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do with that now.
Richard shifted his weight, glancing briefly at the dance floor behind them as if remembering he’d been in the middle of something before they arrived.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I was enjoying myself.”
“That so?” John said, clearly amused.
“It was,” Richard replied, then looked back at George for a second like that part mattered more than the rest of it.
George felt that look land more than he expected it to, which was irritating, because there was no reason for it to.
Paul cleared his throat slightly.
“We were just about heading off,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
John made a vague sound of agreement, though he didn’t move immediately, still half-curious, still half-lingering in the moment like he wasn’t ready to leave it behind.
George glanced at Richard again, not entirely sure why, and found Richard already watching him.
There was a small pause between them that didn’t really fit the rest of the conversation.
Then Richard gave a slight shrug, like he’d decided something simple.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll leave you lot to it then.”
He didn’t make it sound like a dismissal. More like he was just accepting the shape of the evening as it was.
George nodded, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was nodding to.
“Yeah,” he said. “Right.”
Richard hesitated for half a second, then added, casually, “Was good meeting you, George Harrison.”
“Yeah,” George said again, slightly slower this time. “You too.”
That should have been the end of it.
It almost was.
Richard gave him one last look—quick, unreadable, but not unfriendly—and then turned slightly, already easing back into the crowd like he belonged there more than he belonged in any conversation that required explaining yourself.
George watched him go without meaning to.
He only realised he was still watching when Paul spoke again beside him.
“You alright?” Paul asked.
“Yeah,” George said automatically.
But he didn’t move right away.
John stretched his arms above his head.
“Right,” he said. “I’m starving. Anyone fancy chips?”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“You’re always starving.”
“Well, I am.”
That broke whatever remaining stillness there was, and they started moving together toward the exit, the noise of the club fading slightly as they pushed through the door and out into the night.
Outside, the air was colder than George remembered.
The street was quieter too, the music from inside reduced to a dull pulse behind them.
John lit a cigarette immediately, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for the chance all evening.
Paul stood a little straighter, looking up the street as if already thinking ahead to something else.
George, though, stayed half a step behind them without meaning to.
Not because he was tired.
Not because he wasn’t following.
Just because for some reason, his attention didn’t feel like it had quite come back to where it was supposed to be yet.
And somewhere behind them, inside the club, the night carried on without him.
They walked in a loose group down the street, the sound of the club already fading behind them into something distant and unimportant. John was talking about food again, something about chips from a place he liked near the corner, while Paul answered in short remarks that didn’t quite commit to anything but still kept the conversation moving.
George wasn’t really listening.
He was there, physically, walking with them, but part of him was still a little stuck in that space back in the club, in the way the sofa had dipped beside him, in the sound of Richard’s voice when he laughed, in the feeling of his hand being taken so easily like it wasn’t a question that needed asking.
It was irritating, actually, how simple it had all been.
“How do you fancy chips then?” John asked again, nudging him slightly with his elbow.
“Yeah,” George said after a beat. “Alright.”
Paul glanced at him briefly, like he was checking something, but didn’t comment.
They split not long after that, the kind of quiet parting that came naturally when they’d all been together long enough to know nobody needed ceremony for it. John went off in one direction still talking about food, Paul in another with a vague wave and a “see you tomorrow” that didn’t require an answer.
George stayed where he was for a moment longer than he meant to.
The street felt colder now without the noise around him. Even the air seemed sharper, more present.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking.
There wasn’t really anything to think about, he told himself.
It had just been a conversation in a club. A random lad. Nothing more complicated than that.
But his mind didn’t seem particularly interested in agreeing.
He thought about the rings again without meaning to. The way they had caught the light when Richard moved his hand. The way he’d spoken like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and somehow still managed to make George listen properly.
George exhaled slowly through his nose, almost annoyed with himself.
It wasn’t even important.
And yet it stayed.
Back at the club, Richard lingered for a while after they’d gone.
Not because he had anything to stay for, really. The band on stage had already changed again, the crowd shifting slightly, the night moving on as it always did.
He stood near the edge of the room, cigarette between his fingers, watching the door for a moment longer than necessary.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was waiting for.
That was the odd part.
He replayed the evening in his head without trying to. The sofa, the sudden introduction, the way the lad had looked at him like he’d actually been interesting rather than just someone passing time in a club. The way he’d laughed, properly laughed, when there hadn’t really been anything in particular to laugh at.
George Harrison.
Richard rolled the name over in his mind once, like he was testing how it sounded.
Strange lad.
Quiet, in a way that didn’t feel empty. Just… full of something that didn’t come out easily.
He took a drag from his cigarette and leaned back slightly, exhaling toward the ceiling.
No point thinking about it too much, he decided.
It was just one night.
Just a club.
Just a conversation.
And still, as he finally turned and headed out into the street, he found himself wondering—without much sense or permission—what the lad’s voice would sound like in the morning when everything was quieter.