Chapter Text
James Paul McCartney met John Winston Lennon on the 6th of July 1957 in St. Peter’s Church in Woolton, Liverpool. It had been a damp and hot day, the moisture in the air probably only aiding to the electric current passing through their locked gaze. It was there, at that date, that Paul and John, two complete strangers, became John-and-Paul as per divine command: they had become two halves of the same whole, linked together for eternity.
Had George Harrison been there to see this pivotal moment in history take place and had he known the effects of this meeting, he would’ve screeched at the heavens to stop being such a bitch to him before dragging Paul home to play guitar and listen to the radio. But George hadn’t been there, because it had been dinnertime and he’d been fourteen and he never dared to anger his mam, as she was a scary, scary woman when angry.
It was a slow, tiny stream at first, George noticed. Whenever Paul came over – which was almost every day – and whenever they talked of things other than music, the subject would always go off course and somehow land on John. To George, stomach crawling with a feeling he couldn’t quite decipher, this never failed to feel like a bum note in a guitar solo or the drummer being off. The discomfort every time their conversations trailed off to John, Paul babbling about the lad with a dreamy look in his pretty eyes, was enough for George to feel more insecure than ever. He’d curl over his guitar and clutch it close to his chest in a protective manner, acting as if the plywood would guard his heart from hurt.
John was older and cooler than George. He smoked regularly, got drunk regularly, looked like a ted with his messy, curly quiff and big boots and drainpipe trousers and rolled up sleeves; it wasn’t particularly surprising why Paul had already become so taken by the older lad, even if he couldn’t play guitar to save his life (or, so Paul had told him once, giggling). One time Paul’d dragged him along to a practice of John’s band: a rag-tag gathering of dirty boys who laughed too loud and made decent music that old people hated but George reluctantly admitted was okay to listen to. The entire night he’d been seated off to the side, only half-listening to Ivan’s usual endless stream of word-vomit and fully staring at Paul and John in the other corner, bent over their guitars and giggling silently at each other. Every time Paul reached out to adjust John’s fingers on the strings, George’s stomach churned, and every time John let his hand linger on Paul’s shoulder with a soft smile, George’s heart clenched. He didn’t exactly know why he felt that way, couldn’t figure out why his blood boiled by the sheer mention of John out of Paul’s mouth, but he knew for certain that it wasn’t anything positive. And when John at some point during the evening looked away from Paul, straight at George, and smirked, George almost jumped up and throttled him. Almost.
But he didn’t, thankfully, because he’d not yet hit his growth-spurt yet and could probably fit one-and-a-half-times in John, and even though he’d taken on lads bigger than John and beat them he wasn’t too sure about beating this Lennon figure – the boy walked around with a black eye, bruised knuckles, and a smug look on his stupid face more often than not, so he would’ve been killed for sure.
Regardless, when Paul and George were on their way back home after practice Paul continued to babble about John’s… John-ness like the lad was bloody Queen Elizabeth and he was one of those mothers who adored the Royal Family too much. He’s improved, Geo! and it’s fun there, innit? and other bull-shite things that made George want to rip ‘is ears off by the time they’d reached Paul’s stop.
“Oh!” Paul then said, and he turned around just before he got off. “Me da’ said I should go on holiday this year, with me friends. So I thought- I thought we could go hitchhiking’. Jus’ the two of us. What do ye think?”
George blinked in surprise, not completely processing what Paul had just asked of him. “Sure,” he answered slowly. “Yeah, sure.”
Paul, in return, beamed at him before jumping out onto the pavement. “Alright!” he yelled, just before the doors closed, “see ye tomorrow, we’ll plan it – it’s gonna be fun!”
Hitchhiking, George realised as the bus turned into another street, actually gave him the opportunity to talk and hang out with Paul without having bloody Lennon sniffing around all the damn time. As the reality of their future activity slowly began to sink in, he became more and more excited, up until the point he was almost bouncing in his seat when the bus finally reached his stop. He skipped out of the vehicle, yelling a thanks at the driver as he went, before he ran home.
That next morning he was downstairs earlier than usual, airily asking whether he could go, and when his da’ muttered an “alright” from behind his newspaper and his mam agreed with a sigh and a smile he couldn’t believe his luck. Paul and he spent the next couple of days planning and doing chores for some extra money and before he knew it, he was on his way with his best mate, hitchhiking through Wales. They spent their days walking and climbing in backseats of cars, making polite conversations with the drivers. They would walk into pubs with the question if they could get a bed to sleep in if they did some work and would thank the people profusely if they answered positively. The beds were usually made for only one person, but sleeping top ‘n tail gave them the room they needed. Though Paul had the tendency to stick his stinky toes up George’s nose and George had the tendency to curl up and bang his knees against Paul’s stomach, it was comfortable.
“Gotta say, though, mate,” Paul then said one evening as they got ready for bed, “ain’t no way I’m gonna sleep with yer feet in me face.”
“Says you,” George snorted, pulling his undershirt over his head and throwing it on his backpack, before quickly slipping on his pyjama shirt. “Ye haven’t changed yer socks in a week, son, and all ye do is kickin’ ‘em against me poor nose.”
“The agony,” Paul gasped, slapping the bedspread with a smile, “the horror!”
“Fuckin’ lethal, those toes of yours,” George retorted, and he grinned at Paul’s cackle. “But what’d you want to do then? Ask for a wash first?”
“No, no, no, not yet.” Paul scooted a little closer to the wall and pointed at the free space. “You sleep ‘ere. With yer head on the pillow, like. Right here.”
“You mean no top ‘n tail, then?” George paused, heart skipping a beat as he shuffled out of his trousers and squinted at his mate. “You sure? You know I get clingy in my sleep-”
Paul’s pretty eyebrows shot up and he looked away, no doubt remembering all the times he woke up with George tangled around him like a boa constrictor, before he shook his head with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s a cold night, anyway, might like sharin’ some body warmth.”
George shrugged, jumping to get his pyjama bottoms over his non-existent arse before sliding into bed with his heart in his throat.
It was stupid to be nervous, George reckoned. Stupid, because they’d slept in the same bed numerous times before and it’d never been weird, and he shuffled until he’d found a comfortable spot. Paul’s arm was less than an inch from his, radiating body warmth, and he wiggled a little closer.
“Cold?” Paul muttered, though, to his credit, he didn’t shuffle closer to the wall. At George’s silent nod he sighed, muttering a me too and a now turn off the lights, will ye? George silently turned the bedside light off before settling completely, closing his eyes and relaxing into the pillow. Paul moved next to him, eventually sort of settling with the length of his body pressed against George’s, and George thought he heard a quickened heartbeat – about as quick as his own.
“You ever kissed someone before?”
George’s eyes snapped open. “What kinda question-”
“Perfectly normal, innit?” he turned to look at Paul, who still seemed to be as wide awake as George was. “Jus’ curious, that’s all.”
George swallowed, licked his lips. “Once,” he said honestly. “On holiday. Lizzy was her name, and she jus’ kissed me before we left.”
“Tongue?”
“I-” he took a sharp, short breath. “A little.”
“Gear,” Paul nodded, a contemplative look on his face. “That’s gear. I kissed one girl I sat next to during Maths last year, once. She just shoved ‘er tongue in. It was disgusting.”
“Who?”
“Don’t remember ‘er name,” Paul shrugged, “she and her parents moved away a week later.”
“Oh.” He paused as he stared at the darkness of the ceiling, hoping to God that spiders weren’t staring right back. “Was it really that gross?”
“What?”
“With tongue.”
Paul shifted next to him. “A little. The way it happened, anyway. Felt like a slug.”
George almost choked on air. “That’s… that’s disgusting.”
“I know!”
“Lizzy only licked my lip.” George frowned at the dark ceiling before turning his head again a little. “I wonder what it’s like to actually kiss. Proper, like.”
Paul sat up. “Me too. Without the slug.”
George snickered into the pillow, and Paul laughed from above him. Without the slug, yeah. That would be nice, probably. He didn’t really get the appeal of kissing yet, but he’d seen people do it in movies already. And when Lizzy’d pressed her mouth to his, his heart had raced and his cheeks had flushed and he’d felt giddy for hours afterwards. Was that supposed to happen with kissing? Was it supposed to make you feel like you were free-falling?
“We can try,” Paul muttered into the silence all of a sudden, and George sat up now too. He was confused, though he thought he might know where this was going. But that couldn’t be it, right? That couldn’t? Paul couldn’t-
“You mean-”
Paul sighed, then, and brought their mouths together.
It was as if all the nerves in his body were tensed, coiled up like the shrilly singing springs of the old mattress under their bodies, rigid like the harsh and unforgiving hardwood of his mam's new kitchen table. He felt both scared and excited, unable to pull away, the feeling of Paul's mouth against his own almost too much to properly fathom. But Paul's mouth was indeed there, indeed moving against Geo's hesitantly, and indeed: they were kissing.
Which was wrong because it was queer and queer was weird- but then again, they were weird, weren't they? Before John, they’d spend hours of the day with their ears pressed against the radio and tummies pressed against the body of their guitars and fingers dancing over the strings, in search of that perfect chord, the chord they needed. They’d spend hours of the day, hours of their free time dissecting melodies and lyrics instead of being outside chasing skirts and looking intimidating on street corners with their coiffed hair and new drainies and half-smoked ciggies they always shared, because neither of the two of them could smoke one cig on their own yet. Before John they were weird together, and now Paul was weird and cool with John and George was weird on his own - but it didn’t matter right now. It didn’t matter right now, because now it was Paul-and-George again and they were kissing.
Then Paul made a short, impatient, almost insecure noise against George's silent lips and something passed through George. A current, a tidal wave of feeling and warmth and holy shit, mate and then Paul pulled back, wide-eyed and red-faced, and he swallowed.
“Like that,” he whispered, gaze flitting between George’s eyes and mouth.
But “like that” wasn’t enough – he wanted more. It was silly and it was weird but he wanted more, wanted to kiss his best mate again, wanted to move his mouth against Paul’s again. George exhaled shakily, placing a trembling hand on Paul’s round cheek and curling his fingers just behind Paul’s ear.
“No,” he then said, and he wasn’t surprised to hear that his voice was incredibly unsteady, “no, tha’ can’t be right – there’s no tongue. Show me again.”
Paul surged forward.
He kissed little harder this time, less careful and more daring. It was wet and weird and exciting when Paul darted his tongue against George's lower lip as if to taste him, inching closer and placing a nervous hand on George's clothed, skinny waist, and something stirred deep inside his groin. Paul tasted like the stew they’d eaten two hours ago and the milk they’d drunk before bed and there was so much spit that it was almost gross, but the kiss was exhilarating. Every last inch of his body was on fire, every hair standing up, his heart beating at an incredible pace. George tilted his head slightly like he’d seen men do in the romance movies he was dragged along to sometimes and their noses squished against each other, making Paul snicker into his mouth before he cut himself off with a gasp as George managed to deepen the kiss even further.
And as the moon climbed higher and higher into the sky, they were there in their own little bubble, safe in bed with sweaty clothes and oily hair and stinky socks, laughing into each other’s mouths and falling asleep in each other’s arms.
The next days were spent with sneaking starry-eyed looks at a red-faced Paul, sharing grins and giggles with him throughout the day, and sharing warmth and comfort with him during the night. They charmed their way into people's guest rooms, killed rogue house-spiders, paid for a meal by helping out in the garden or in the kitchen or on the fields.
"Such handsome, polite lads," he'd heard the generous wife of a pub-owner say one night, "must be great friends, they are."
He’d looked at Paul at that, who’d just grinned at him with a wink, and he’d grinned back with flaming cheeks and racing heart. They were great friends – they’d just done something that most friends didn’t really do. And it was fine, everything was fine and George didn’t feel any different about Paul. Their friendship was strong as ever. Now that the curiosity was out of the way, there was no way for either of them to fuck up terribly by being weird about it. They’d done what they wanted to try, it was enjoyable, and now they were going to shut up about it.
But… was their friendship strong as ever? Even after the kiss, even after the amazed gazes and red cheeks and shy grins Paul still couldn’t stop talking about John. It wasn’t like he wasn’t interested in what George had to say now, because he (differently from when they were in Liverpool) was genuinely listening to George’s dry-sounding drawl, but all of his attention was still on John.
When the lad had casually swaggered into their life, smelling like beer and sweat, wearing something that could've been a sneer and a smirk, and playing fuckin' banjo-chords on that bull-shite guitar of his, something had changed. An extra cog in the machine, a shift of the axis of the earth, a wrinkle smoothed out in the fabric of space and time; it was something big, something that made George feel both excited and saddened. Excited because it could mean something in the deeper meaning of the universe, something he’d been slightly interested in since early childhood, but saddened because part of that change was apparently basically losing someone dear to him.
George had been able to forget about all of those worries during their little holiday. For two weeks or so, George had been able to pretend that Paul was again all his, and he was Paul’s, and they were no-one else’s. Just the two of them against the world, flipping the bird at the sea and blowing kisses at the sky. For a brief moment during the night, under the covers in an extra room of a pub that allowed them free stay for the night, they’d been fully connected in a way George had never deemed possible. But now that they were back in the real world, George realised that his perfect little fantasy was no more than that: a fantasy.
The first hour after they’d resurfaced in Liverpool John had already been there, skipping around Paul like a lovesick puppy and happily barking something about new chords he taught himself in Paul’s sorely-missed absence. He’d slung his arm around Paul’s neck, had roughly ruffled George’s hair, and had dragged them along to the pub that he’d suddenly “forgotten” George couldn’t get into, being fourteen goin’ on fifteen and looking nine goin’ on ten, but Paul’d winked at the guy in the door and George had lowered his hat and suddenly they’d been inside, drinking a pint and talking.
Well, Paul’d talked and John’d asked questions and George’d stayed silent in his corner of the booth, trying his best to get used to the bitter taste of beer and acting like he wasn’t bothered by being ignored. Because suddenly, it hadn’t been Paul-and-George anymore. It hadn’t even been even John-and-Paul-and-George, it had just been John-and-Paul – and John always looked at Paul like the lad had personally sprinkled stars across the velvet of the night-sky and Paul always looked at John like the bastard personally pulled the sun across the heavens, and George always wasn’t anything more than a vague cloud passing by.
There was this... electricity when they looked at each other, this zap and boom that wasn't there when Paul and George would lock gazes. Paul giggled too much when John was present, like he was a goddamn bird, and John would try too hard to make Paul giggle. He appeared to be as desperate for Paul's smile as Paul was desperate for John's approval and apparently, apparently, it was a match made in heaven. And no matter how much George would sulk and feel bad for himself and retreat back into his old, trusty, shy and sneering self, Paul wouldn't even look at him.
It was all about John now. John Winston Lennon, a boy who made up non-existent lyrics when he'd get too drunk to remember the proper ones and a boy who couldn't even play the guitar half as well as George could. A boy who was middle class but acted like he were part of the lower, as if he'd grown up in a poor family and had gone to bed hungry at least once a week because there wasn't enough money to feed the entire family; a boy who made his accent rougher than George's to make himself look tough, who'd pull funny faces to make Paul laugh and made sneering comments whenever George was so much present because George was apparently too young to be a true member of John Lennon's little clan of dirty wannabe-teds with greasy quiffs and smelly clothes.
Paul rambled on and on and on about this boy, this boy who was picking up playing actual guitar so quickly and so well and who smelled like pine when he didn't smell like alcohol and cigarettes and he had glasses Geo did you know?? of course I didn't he doesn't wear them and, God, this boy had Paul's lovely, sad eyes sparkle like gems whenever John was mentioned. It didn't feel right; John wasn't supposed to be the only one to make Paulie laugh till he cried because that was Georgie's job, used to be, had been since they met. It was George who made the snarky comments that had Paul giggle and shake and snort like a little boy and it was George who’d kissed Paul so hard once that the boy’d gasped and it was George who crawled into bed with Paul after his mam died and whispered little words of comfort in his ear and brushed his nose comfortingly across his jawline and it was George who fended off anyone who dared to attack Paul for looking like a poof or looking like he was about to cry because his mam was dead and it wasn't John who'd done all that, it was George, so how dare he-?
If Paul had noticed that George was feeling a little (VERY) abandoned he didn't show it, stubbornly continuing to slip John into any conversation they had now - as if George usually wasn't there when Paul's wild stories would take place, as if Paul hadn't dragged him along and sat him down to play along with the rest of John's group more times than George could count on his fingers now. He now had to spend bloody hours staring down John-and-Paul bent over their guitars and figuring out chords and laughing silently like Paul-and-George used to, had to spend hours ignoring John's smug glances when Paul would dismiss George again for the hundredth time because oh well, Geo, John said something just now- can you wait for a mo'? and John would shout something along the lines of didn't yer mam teach ye not to interrupt, lad? and they'd all laugh, all those cool, gross, disgusting older boys with experience who didn't wash their hands after going to the loo or after sticking their grubby little fingers up a bird's skirt would laugh because he was the youngest, was the little unintimidating baby of the group even if he played guitar better than any of those bloody bastards.
And as summer came to an end and September rolled around, George noticed that school rides were about John too, now, not just about music, because apparently John and music had become synonymous for Paul. Lunch was now filled with John plus music and hey Geo did you know John doesn't like peas? and John's improving quickly, y'know and George wanted to snap that he didn't know Paul was such a queer that he couldn't stop talking about his crush like a flustered, swooning bird but he held himself back, not wanting to lose the only strong friendship he had- even if it was deteriorating at an alarming rate. Besides, it'd be hypocritical too: the only thing he was able to think about apart from music was Paul Paul Paul and his stupidly beautiful mouth and eyes and smile and how his long fingers slid over the strings of his upside-down-guitar and danced through the chord progressions. It was stupid and embarrassing to George, especially when he'd be curled up into a cold, silent ball in his bed during the late hours of the night, how the boy he couldn't bloody stop thinking about didn't seem to bother thinking about George anymore.
But they’d kissed, hadn’t they? They’d kissed and Paul had fuckin’ gasped in ecstasy and now he was ignoring him like it never happened, like they’d never kissed, like their hands hadn’t trembled as they gripped each other. It was bullshit and it was, so, so painful-
Paul had apparently not lost all memories of his friendship with George though, proving that when he showed up one evening with his guitar case in one hand and a ciggie in the other, hair falling in gelled curls across his smooth forehead. He looked so beautiful George wanted to close the door in his stupidly pretty face, but Paul was looking at him with such intensity, such need that he abandoned that idea quicker than he could hoover up a bowl of custard. George was all ears for Paul's frantic yet enthusiastic babbling about music until it suddenly included John again, because John had a band that made music that Paul felt the need to inform him on anyway even though George had been at practice endless times and he couldn't stop his face from looking more annoyed that usual. Paul, too emerged in thoughts of John Winston Lennon did not notice the sudden change in attentiveness in his used-to-be-best-friend and chattered on for minutes; it wasn't until he suddenly said something about "audition again" and "now" that George snapped out of his surly daydreaming and choked on his cigarette. Paul patiently waited for George to stop coughing before he explained that you see, Geo, John’s finally willin’ to give ye a chance and that’s gear, and that you're gear, Geo, and they're gear, and it'll be a perfect fit and then we can play together again!! and George didn't have the gall to tell Paul that it wasn't George's fault that they hadn't truly played together in so long. But he also didn't have the gall to say no, as it took only one bloody please from Paul before he was suddenly sitting on the roof of a fuckin' double-decker, guitar in his lap, Paul vibrating with anticipation across from him and John in his peripheral vision, looking blank-faced yet moody. He played Raunchy all the way through without so much blinking because he could, and the fact that John's jaw had suddenly gone a little slack and Paul was positively beaming actually made him feel a little better. John reckoned he was still too young but mate, yer the best player in Liddypool and Paul cheerfully added they could draw a moustache on upper lip with charcoal to make him look older and then John looked at Paul with eyes shining with adoration and a fuckin' stupid grin and Paul giggled at John and reached out to lovingly push the lad's knee-
George felt a little nauseous all of a sudden, pride of his flawless audition dissipating until there was no more than a miniscule smouldering ember left. I'm no more than a background character now, he realised as he watched the little exchange between John and Paul with green-tinted vision. They'd plopped themselves in their own little bubble, their own, secluded, impenetrable bubble, and nothing else mattered anymore. Could've been a fuckin' tree and it would be no different.
As they slowly rose in recognition, they lost most of their members to school and jobs. The Quarrymen, as John still insisted on calling them, now consisted of three guitarists - and no drummer. They’d search through Liverpool for one every time they wanted to perform and though each drummer differed in skill and general likability, it was fine. Being a trio now, though, meant that George felt more like an outsider by the day.
John and Paul were enthralled by each other at this point, spending more time together than they ever did with any of their other friends. Which would’ve been fine, y’know, if George hadn’t slowly realised less over a year ago that he was sadly very much so in love with his best friend – who seemed to be very much in love with John Lennon.
And George liked John, now. Sure, he was still a raging arsehole with a drinking problem and a sneering wit, but who’s to say George wasn’t either? They bonded over their love for fast songs and hair grease and the fact that Paul McCartney was too pretty for his own good, often acting as a bloody bodyguards – though John looked a whole lot more intimidating, being eighteen and broad shouldered and not sixteen and twig-like – but it seemed that Paul needed it as he often still got accused of being a “dirty poof”, simply because it looked like he groomed his eyebrows and used mascara.
Regardless, they accepted each other now- if accepting meant annoying the fuck out of each other with teasing remarks and sneering comments and being constantly involved in playful physical and intellectual battles. Paul appeared to be pleased by this development, his two best friends finally getting along decently.
But it wasn’t like George general attitude towards them had changed on a significant level. Sure, he was a lot less moody whenever it was the three of them because John genuinely made him laugh, but the near-constant flirting happening in front of them between John and Paul didn’t do great things for his mood. He tended to be more reserved towards them now, no longer enjoying deep conversations with Paul. Paul appeared to be oblivious to it and John was always in for some shallow conversational material after three pints and a night of performing, so there was no reason for George to stop doing it. It felt more secure anyway, not laying any of his feelings bare.
Alcohol sadly always had some effects. Just enough was good for a pleasant buzz, a slightly looser mouth, and a slightly less uptight feeling. And though he minded the whole McLennon bullshit happening right in front of his bloody nose, he’d always still managed to hold himself together.
With more alcohol he had to be careful, easily running his mouth and having his emotions take over. The nights where Paul gave him subsequent attention were always the best; he could get as pissed as he’d like and Paul would drag him home with a sloppy, drunk grin and a tired wave at John and they’d crash in bed together, pressed against each other with faces buried in stiff hairdo’s and sweaty necks. It was then, with closed eyes and a twirling world, that George could briefly pretend that he had Paul and Paul had him and that John was their very much straight best friend who didn’t even think of flirting with Paul. Those moment were moments of content, drunk bliss, even if the morning afters were a bit less pleasant.
Sadly, Paul’d recently given him less attention than usual. He’d flitted around John like a bird, touching his biceps and his chest and giggling at every joke, and John would stare back with a stupid grin and red cheeks and shining eyes, and it was disgusting. And it hurt. Getting drunk wasn’t exactly the smartest thing in the world to do, George knew that while he’d been chugging his fourth drink since Paul’s sudden disappearance, but he felt like it anyway. Even if the alcohol made his tongue loose and his emotions grow trifold.
Paul, in particular, always got a bit miffed when George got plastered without him. It either had to do with his protective, older brother-like attitude towards George or because he didn’t like being left out. George figured it was probably both. And, now that George had gotten absolutely shitfaced without Paul (because he was with John, and George got sad and jealous) and Paul was suddenly pulling him out of the pub in a huff, George realised that it was without a doubt both.
He was being dragged along over the pavement, staggering on his feet, watching as the stars above the city spun around in perfect circles. Paul’s hand fit snugly around his wrist as the older boy tugged him back home, muttering “why’d you do that without me?” and “could’ve calmed the fuck down, too,” under his breath. George wasn’t sure whether Paul was taking him home or home home, but he didn’t really care. Paul was basically holding his hand and sometimes their hips brushed by accident and it felt great, even if his head was spinning and he was actually kind of hungry and Paul kept up a reasonably fast pace.
It didn’t take long for George to slowly recognise the streets he grew up in, and he wasn’t very surprised when Paul ultimately led him up to the front door of quaint Harrison-residence, grabbing the key from under the flower-pot like he did it daily.
Well, he did it weekly, but that was unimportant information.
“Take of yer shoes,” Paul demanded when they’d stumbled inside, voice just above a whisper, and George clumsily complied. He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, standing on tippy toes to hang it on the coat rack; Paul caught him when he almost lost his balance.
The trip up the stairs wasn’t that hard, having walked those stairs for years now, but he did end up fumbling with the doorknob of his bedroom door as Paul impatiently and tiredly leaned against him. He opened the door, dropping himself on the bed with a groan. Paul shrugged out of his jacket and closed the door, quickly dropping himself into the chair next to George’s bed.
“Why the fuck” Paul said lowly, and he fluttered his fingers through the air, “did ye drink so much? Without me?”
George blinked sluggishly. “I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” Paul started to chew on his thumb. “Christ, mate. We were havin’ a couple of pints and I go to John for one moment and come back and you’ve downed three more-”
“Ah! There it is,” George sat up slightly, slowly. He didn’t want to get sick and the mere mention of John already had his bloody stomach churning with jealousy. “There’s yer reason. ‘Ave fun with it, stick it up yer arse-”
“Me leaving is because you decided to get more pissed than we’d planned on gettin’?” Paul asked (slurred?) incredulously. “Are ye serious??”
“No,” George groaned at the ceiling. “Read deeper between the lines, son!”
There was a brief moment of silence as Paul chewed on that and George merely stared at his feet. Then: “Because I went to John?”
George stayed silent and sighed through his nose.
“John?” Paul repeated, “John? Ye got drunk because I left ye to go to John? Why- that’s so childish, Geo-”
There was a sudden surge of an overwhelming feeling in his body, something he identified as a mix of desperation and annoyance and the ever-present simmering jealousy.
"Well, it used to be Paul-and-George, didn't it?" he snapped, heart clenching at the way Paul flinched away from him. But he couldn't find it in himself to stop, too frustrated, too many pent-up insecurities swirling around in his guts. His eyes burned. "It was jus' Paul-and-George," he repeated, willing his tears back. "Not John-and-Paul and then maybe, jus' maybe George- but now it is Maybe George, ain't it? It's John-and-Paul, and then all the way to the back there's George. Maybe George, if he's lucky and John's not there. Fuck's sake McCartney," his voice had gone down to a choked-up whisper, "I'm not enough anymore, aren't I?"
Paul was white-faced and fidgeting. "Yer drunk, Geo," he then muttered, looking at a place near George's ear, "yer drunk and ye should sleep-"
"So??" George wanted to cry. "You're not- you're not answerin'-"
Paul placed his hand on George's chest, all gently and caring, and his touch felt red-hot; it burned through the cotton of his shirt, seared his skin when Paul pushed and pushed until his back hit the mattress. It felt like it'd branded him when Paul finally removed his hand (no, please don't-) and rested it on the colourful bedspread, the print of Paul's palm forever right there and centre on his ribcage, pulsing in sync with the beat of his heart.
"You're not less important to me than John, Geo-"
"No, but I am," he breathed, "I am and it's not fair 'cause- 'cause I was first-"
Paul sighed, beautifully and insufferably. "It's not a race, George."
"Well 'e thinks it is!"
Paul immediately surged forwards, shushing George by placing a finger over his lips, and brushed a stray look of hair away from his forehead.
George's heart stuttered.
"Don't yell," Paul muttered lowly, deep eyes flicking from George's eyes to his mouth. Something stirred deep inside his groin. "It's late, everyone's asleep."
"I don't care, Paul." George turned his face away and clumsily crawled upright. The world started to spin at an alarming pace again. "I jus'- I need ye to listen to me-"
"I am listenin', but you're not makin' any sense, Geo."
"Because yer not listenin'!" George whined tearfully and then promptly dropped his forehead against Paul's shoulder in the hope to stop his bedroom from spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the calming, familiar smell of cigarettes and sweat and beer and leather and that cheap cologne Paul always nicked from his da’s cupboard. As Paul slowly lifted hand to run his fingers through the hair at the back of George's head, the room finally calmed down and started to come to a standstill.
"Please just tell me, Geo," Paul whispered. His breath brushed the shell of George's ear and George shivered involuntarily. "You've been in a terrible mood for weeks now, please tell me?"
"Like- like ye don't know." George slurred. "I've told ye wa's wrong, I've said it. I've said it 'n ye didn't listen 'cos ye never listen t' me anymore 'cos you only listen to Lennon-"
“I don’t, love,” he said softly, “I listen t’ you as well-”
“No ye don’t,” came the stubborn reply, “ye don’t- not anymore.”
Paul fell silent at that, now apparently just deciding to run his nails over the back of George’s scalp. The feeling helped the beginnings of the headache fuck off properly and George almost purred, but he ended up just tilting his face up a tad bit and nuzzling his face in the crook of Paul’s neck. Paul shivered noticeably when the tip of George’s nose tickled Paul’s jugular.
“You comfortable?” was then the only thing Paul said, sounding slightly amused. George just grunted in agreement, too content to speak, and pressed his face a little more against Paul’s neck. The fingers went up a little, now apparently having decided to run from his hairline to his neck; George felt a shiver pass down his spine.
“Y’know,” Paul muttered, “yer breath tickles a lil’.”
George teasingly mouthed the place where Paul’s shoulder and neck connected, covering the area with unintentional, open-mouthed kisses, and Paul shook himself away with a breathless giggle. George caught himself just in time before falling forwards.
He looked up, blinking at the giggling form that was Paul McCartney; his cheeks were a little red – noticeable even in the moonlight – and his eyes were twinkling happily, crinkled at the corners from his gigantic smile. The sheer joy on his face, together with the dimple in his left cheek and his endless, dark and full lashes made him look so beautiful, almost more ethereal than he already was, that George’s heart skipped a beat. He was sure he was grinning stupidly at this point, wide and drunk, with an adoring stare.
“You’re beautiful,” he blurted, regretting the words as soon as they’d left his mouth.
Paul stilled, grin shrinking until it was no more than a small, closed-mouthed smile. “You think so?”
A sharp intake of breath, a touch of their knees. “I know so.”
“Some reckon I’m too… feminine, y’know?” he said softly. “Like a bird. Mike does it, Pete, da’ sometimes – John, too. “ye look like a bird,” ‘e says, “too pretty”.”
“Well,” George hissed, mood having plummeted after the mention of John, “Lennon doesn’t know shite. ‘e jus’- ‘e jus’ can’t admit to another lad tha’ he’s handsome. ‘fraid of soundin’ like a queer or somethin’.”
“That’s an okay thing to fear,” Paul replied, a hint of defensiveness to his voice. “I wouldn’t wanna be called a… a poof, y’know?” after a couple of seconds of silence, Paul leaned forward a bit. “Would you?”
Panic flared up in his chest. “No,” he said, and he wasn’t lying – even if his feelings were very much gay. “No, I wouldn’t. Even if I was, then I still wouldn’t want to be called one.”
Paul squinted at him. “Demeanin’, innit? Would rather jus’ be called gay, or queer maybe.”
“Yeah,” George answered. He swallowed. “If ye were one.”
Paul just smiled.
They were silent for a little while younger. Pauls hand had now landed on George’s knee and his fingers were drawing small circles over the rough material of his trousers. George had now decided to lean back on his hands and just look at the ceiling, watching as it twirled elegantly under his gaze all while focusing on the feeling of Paul’s hands on his leg.
“I’ve got a small question, mate,” Paul then muttered, and though George’s heart started to beat at an incredible pace he merely answered with a grunt. Paul took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m jus’- ye didn’t answer before. Not clearly anyway. Jus’ want to know why you’ve been sorta… been so weird with me- me ‘n John, then.”
Something hot and painful exploded in George’s chest, and he started to breathe more heavily.
“I don’t like it, y’know?” Paul continued. “We talk, we do that, but ye seem so closed off all the damn time, right? An’ it- it makes me- you said it ‘ad to do with John?”
George’s hands trembled, and his eyes were involuntarily burning again. His stomach felt tied up in knots and this back-and-forth from anger to content back to anger was probably not good at all for the calm of his mind. “Yeah,” he answered dumbly, blinking at nothing in particular. “Yeah.”
“Can you-” a deep breath, “why?”
“He’s yer erry- ev’rythin’, now,” he choked out. “An’ I’m nothin’.” He paused, taking one, shuddering breath. “I fuckin’ hate ye sometimes.”
“You don’t mean that.” Paul almost demanded, now yanking at George’s T-shirt harshly. George lolled his head forwards and stared at Paul, who was red-cheeked and grimacing and bouncing his leg. “You don’t, do ye, Geo? Geo, do you?”
"Yer a fuckin' arse who- who shoves aside 'is mates whennies found summun- sum- someone better," George slurred angrily, prying Paul’s fingers away from his shirt. “An’ I don’t get it. Wha’ better is John than me, anyway? Fights erryone 'e comes across, drinks till 'e passes out, can't play the bloody guitar-"
"He can now, George-"
"Yeah, barely."
“You’re bein’ mean,” Paul panted, “you’re bein’ mean an’ you’re drunk an’ I don’t believe ye, I don’t-”
George wanted to scream; he wanted to either break down and cry pathetically or headbutt Paul so hard he'd get amnesia and forget all about bloody John Lennon, but either options would probably not be the best and only prove to Paul that that awful bitch of a John was a better friend than George had ever been.
So, he leaned forward, grasped Paul’s face in his hands, and kissed him - which, arguably, wouldn't guarantee Paul suddenly finding George better than John.
Paul's mouth still fit on his like it had that summer of ‘57. Two mouldable puzzle pieces shoved together in a way that might mean they belonged together; but George had his eyes closed, too afraid of seeing a reaction of disgust on Paul's face, and thus couldn't check whether the colours even matched.
Oh, how risky this action was: it wasn’t necessarily so that he couldn’t, but that he shouldn’t admit his unbelievably romantic feelings for his best mate. People didn’t just accept… queers. The norm was the norm and every good young scouser was expected to follow the old guideline whether it was the last thing they do. This spontaneous display of affection… it was dangerous, it was reckless, it was entirely insane and presumably catastrophic - yet it was also passionate and desperate, George clutching Paul’s soft face between his roughened fingers and moving his mouth against the other’s, heartbeat a steady yet frantic drumroll in his chest. It was the type of drumroll none of their drummers could do, the type that was perfect for more emotional songs. If Paul didn’t feel, didn’t know, didn’t- couldn’t understand, George would be shunned. He’d be ripped to shreds, his mam stared at with pity at the market and his da’ ignored in the breakroom at work. So, he gripped Paul tighter, slid one hand from his cheek to his lower back, clutching him closer and caging him in.
And then Paul moaned.
His hands had travelled up, one clutching the cotton stretched over George’s chest and one gripping the back of his head almost painfully, and he fuckin’ moaned – all loud and girly, like. His mouth opened slightly and their tongues touched and he tasted like beer and cigarettes and George pressed himself even tighter against Paul with an incredibly embarrassing whine because holy shit that sound made his godforsaken cock twitch. He was pushed towards the bed, suddenly flat on his back and Paul above him, and they were still kissing, oh my God they were still kissing-
He slid one hand away from Paul’s face, slipping it into his shirt and scratching at the soft muscle of his stomach. Paul twitched on top of him and half-giggled – ticklish, ticklish, ticklish – before almost sticking his tongue down George’s throat. Girls didn’t kiss like this. The girls he’d kissed kissed like they were kissing glass, softly and carefully, closer to how their first kiss had felt – but Paul was now kissing him like a man starved, gnawing away at his lips and sucking on his tongue, and it was amazing.
“Holy fuck,” he gasped when Paul pulled away briefly for air, “holy fuck-”
“No fuck now,” Paul muttered, deciding to nibble on the spot where George’s jawline and earlobe almost met and eliciting a downright embarrassing moan from George, “jus’ this, maybe later…”
“Is this- I don’t-” Paul bit down on his neck; George’s hips involuntarily bucked, and the next words came out in a panting whine. “I don’t understand-”
“Don’t understand what?” Paul said gruffly, own hands now exploring the skinny figure underneath George’s shirt, fingers leaving tracks of fire in their wake. “Reckon this is a perfectly clear situation, love, we’re snoggin’-”
“Paulie, you-”
“Me?”
“What about… what about-” he took a deep breath as Paul’s ever-curious fingers brushed his crotch, cheeks flaming at this point. “I thought – John.”
Paul immediately stilled, slowly pulling his hand away and lifting his head from George’s neck. He stared down at George from his straddling position, quiff no longer a quiff and now no more than a mussed up, half-greasy halo around his perfect face with red cheeks and bruised, bitten lips. He was panting, blinking rapidly, and his mouth trembled. “What about John?”
“Paul-”
“What about John, George?” Paul bit out, voice bordering on hysteric. Any type of heat George had felt in his gut previously now disappeared, extinguished by Paul’s less-than-usual reaction. This wasn’t mere annoyance for bringing up a mutual friend during a hot ‘n heavy moment, but different. It was almost as if he were trying to forget-
“You like ‘im.” George blurted, and it wasn’t even a question. It was a statement, because he knew. He’d known for ages now. “You like John.”
Paul averted his eyes, looking almost a little feverish. “Of course I like John,” he sneered at the wall. “He’s my- he’s one of my best friends, Geo-”
“No, not like that,” George sat up a little more, blinking rapidly to keep his gaze steady and the world from spinning. Paul’s eyes flicked back to his. “You- you know what I mean- ye like ‘im, like like.”
“That’s-” Paul swallowed, briefly looking up at the ceiling and laughing. “That’s ridiculous t’ bring up now of all times-”
“Paul.”
He went silent, staring down at George with cheeks that had now lost their colour and panicked, sad eyes. George was no more than a replacement now, was he? No more than a replacement to fill a little hole in Paul McCartney’s heart that John Lennon had unintentionally left. What’d happened now, then? Had John said that the queers were disgusting again? That he couldn’t imagine kissing a lad? Had Paul, with his endless staring and his amazed smiles and his loving touches, finally realised that maybe this admiration for the boy was more than simple admiration? More than a strong friendship?
Had Paul admitted it, maybe? Had he told John, and had he gotten rejected? Was that why he was being so awfully enthusiastic with George instead of John? There were endless possibilities, but they all ended on one thing: George was more a rebound than a genuine interest, better off as a friend than a boyfriend.
Paul climbed off him then, silently and shakily, and dragged a hand through his hair as he went looking for his coat. He’d found it quickly, slipped it on as he walked towards the door and opened it, looking back at George one last time.
“I’ll be goin’ then,” he muttered. George wanted to cry again. “Get some sleep.” He paused in the doorway, turned his head slightly in George’s direction. “See ye in the mornin’?” he then asked, quietly, a hint of insecurity in his voice.
George nodded slowly and bit down on his lip anxiously. “In the mornin’,” he whispered back. “Yeah. G’night.”
His friend just nodded before walking off. George could half hear him making his way down the stairs and putting on his boots, before quietly opening and closing the front door. And just like that, Paul was gone.
It felt a lot more permanent than it should’ve.
When George awoke to sunlight that felt like drops of acid, a stomach that seemed to have twisted itself into a knot, limbs feeling like gummies, and a head being pounded on by a hammer, he didn't know where he was for a brief second.
Soon enough though, the cotton he'd stuck his nose into smelled like his mam's laundry detergent and the wall across from him was filled with posters and pictures he'd taped to the old, faded wallpaper once. Even in his foggy, groggy, hungover state he was pretty sure that Elvis poster had been put up last week with a lot of swearing on his part and a lot of laughter on- on-
on Paul and John's part.
Paul.
George shot upright, ignoring the way his stomach churned and groaned and whined like his nan without 'er sherry on a Friday night, and swung his legs over the bed. He was still dressed in his clothes from yesterday; his drainies felt particularly uncomfortable and itchy, his shirt was really fuckin’ sticky, and by the feeling of it his hair was somewhat still in place. He'd bloody well hope so too, considering the amount of time he'd spent on front of the mirror the night before and how much gel he'd plonked into it - but it was honestly the least of his worries, now.
He just barely recalled the slurry half-confession of last night or this morning or whatever you'd call the time you've proclaimed the beauty of your best friend and bemoaned his relationship with your other best friend while piss-drunk at 3AM and most of all, he recalled the kiss. Oh, God… the kiss…
George climbed onto his feet – he vaguely remembered kicking off his shoes near the door, leaning heavily on Paul – and squeezed his eyes shut, extending his arms in front of him to steady himself against his bedroom wall and prevent himself from collapsing. It was silly because he'd been hungover before: he'd had worse nights, with more booze and less food and less sleep and he'd felt better in the mornings, always able to dance his way down the stairs, gobble up the breakfast his mam'd cooked up, 'n then help his da' out in the garden or whatever. But this time, this time he felt like absolute garbage.
He somehow did manage to make his way down the stairs, following the faint scent of toast and sausages, and sheepishly pushed the door to the kitchen open.
"Mornin' ma," he rasped, and Louise looked up from her book to smile at him.
"Afternoon," she corrected gently with a nod at the clock next to the cross above the door, and George realised she was right after a quick glance at his watch.
He grimaced, scratching the back of his head with trembling fingers, and pulled out a chair to sit down. "Oh."
"No mind, love," she answered, quirking one elegant and dark eyebrow at him with a small, amused smile. "Breakfast, then? Or lunch for you, now."
"Please," he muttered miserably, putting his head down on the solid table and not looking up until Louise plonked a cuppa down in front of his nose, together with a plate filled with toast and one egg.
"Have at it, son," was all she said before turning back to the sausage she was reheating. "Get somethin' in tha’ tummy of yours, now."
"God bless," George sighed, before he took a tiny, reluctant bite from his toast and a small sip of his tea. "Cannae feel worse, mum, bu' this is gear-"
"You should calm it with drinkin', Georgie," his mam interrupted him. "Fourth time you've woken past twelve this month. If dear Paul hadn't been there to take ye home..."
"Paul-" George spluttered through his tea, ignoring the way his cheeks were set ablaze and his heart started to race at the mere mention of his best friend. “What d’ye mean, Paul??”
“He brought you home, didn’t he?” she briefly looked at him. “Thought I heard ‘is voice.”
“I-” flashbacks of their kiss, Paul pressing him against his mattress and biting down his lip, crotches rubbing against each other- “yeah, yeah, he did.”
Louise turned around, crossing her arms in front of her chest and pursing her lips at him. “I don’t like that you’re puttin’ all that responsibility on the lad, George,” she tutted, waving her spatula threateningly in his direction. “He’s been takin’ ye home so often these past few months, because you’re too drunk to walk in a straight line – and why didn’t ‘e sleep over last night, too? Did you kick ‘im out?”
“I- I didn’t, ma!” he grumbled through a mouthful of toast and egg. “I swear! ‘e just left, and I fell asleep after tha’! Besides, Paul’s the arse gettin’ me pissed, y’know…”
"Of course he isn’t, and you know it!" she shushed, turning around with the frying pan in hand and the spatula in the other. She deposited the sausage on his plate, dripping some grease on his dry-as-bollocks toast as she went. “He came by this mornin’, you see? You were still out cold, and he looked a tad bit concerned, but told me to tell you to meet ‘im at his place. Poor boy looked like he hadn’t slept a wink- must be because of yer habits, Geo.”
"Sure, it were my habits," he muttered, suddenly having a lot of difficulty getting his egg to slide down his oesophagus as he thought about their snog again. "Of course. Habits."
She placed the pan back on the stove and seated herself across from him, frowning slightly. "Did something happen last night?"
“No,” George said too quickly, clearing his throat to get rid of the remains of the egg. “No. Nothin’ happened. Jus’ a normal night, normal evenin’ at the pub, no fightin’-”
“Well I’m glad,” she said, before she looked at him with those deep eyes of hers that seemed to stare right into his soul. Paul told him once he inherited that stare, that concerned I’m-looking-through-you stare – and there he went, thinking about Paul again. “Wouldn’t want you to be upset about somethin’.”
“Just me headache,” George lied, sheepishly cutting a piece of his sausage off with the spare knife on the table before scooping it up with his toast. “Nothin’ more, mum.”
She stared at him for a little while longer, and he started to sweat a little. “Hm,” she then hummed after a minute or two, standing up and taking off her apron before smoothing out her dress, “well. I’m goin’ to the grocers’, now – put the plate in the sink when you’re finished. Oh, and Georgie dear,” she called to him when she reached the doorway, “wash yourself a bit before you leave. You reek.”
“Okay,” he mumbled meekly, mouth full of toast and sausage. “Love you.”
“Love you too!” and the door shut behind her with a bang. It was similar to how Paul had left, but louder: as if to announce that she would return.
And Paul had returned, then? He’d stopped by this morning, just to ask of George’s mam whether she’d pass on to him that they were going to meet at his place. It made his heart both flutter and stop right there in his chest, where Paul’s palm-print was still pulsating slightly.
Fuckin’ branded.
George shoved the last of his toast in his mouth with a sigh, polishing off his tea, before getting up and placing his dishes in the sink. He sniffed himself carefully and immediately recoiled with a grimace: his mother was right, he did reek. Of cigarettes and old beer and old sweat and… was that vomit? But he hadn’t vomited?
He carefully climbed up the stairs as to not upset his now filled stomach and grabbed some clean clothes from his room before heading to the bathroom. He showered quickly, washing his hair and his body and not even taking the time to have a wank; he felt too sad for it anyway. After quickly dressing and not bothering to do his hair he was out the door thirty minutes later, guitar in one hand and pack of cigarettes in the other. The late-spring breeze was warm as it brushed through his wet locks and past his clammy skin, the sun bright and high in the sky. Had he not felt the unbelievable churn and discomfort in his stomach, caused by his current anxiety and the remnants of his excessive drinking of the night before, it would’ve been a perfect day.
He took his time as he made his way down the familiar path towards Paul’s childhood home. The red-bricked, terraced house that was 20 Forthlin Road slowly grew in size as he approached, and before he knew it, he’d made his way through the tiny front yard and was knocking on the front door.
Paul’s da’, Jim, opened the door and looked at him with a fond smile. He likes you more than me, Paul’d said with a sheepish grin on some occasions, and judging by the way Jim’s eyes twinkled as he gently ushered him inside, that statement was probably not that far from the truth. Jim genuinely liked George, probably because he was younger and less troublesome than John, and it’d always been the thing George could hold above John’s head without feeling to guilty in the end. He relished in the feeling of being at least better in the eyes of Paul’s father; but oh well, Paul had the tendency to rebel against his dad every now and then.
“’ey there lad!” John called out as soon as he entered the living room, and to George’s delight he actually looked about as bad as George felt with fluffy, messy, un-styled hair and dark circles under his eyes. “What a night, huh?”
“Fuckin’ wild, son,” he answered with a small smirk, and he felt a bit pleased at John’s light-hearted cackle. John turned back to his happy chatter with Paul as George slowly took a seat across the two of them, took his guitar out of its case, and started to tune it.
“Hey,” John then said; George slowly looked up from his strings, raising one eyebrow questioningly. There was a smug yet proud grin on John’s face and his almond-shaped eyes shone as he gestured towards George’s neck. Paul looked a tad bit pale. “Ye found someone then?”
George blinked. “Hm?”
“You’ve got a hickey the size of planet Earth on yer neck, mate,” was the smirking clarification. George’s hand shot up to his neck, feeling- “a badge of honour, I say!”
“I’m gonna go take a look,” he muttered, ignoring Paul’s wide-eyed gaze and John’s grinning face and suddenly he was in the McCartney’s bathroom, inspecting his neck in the tiny mirror. Sure enough, there it was: a big, purplish bruise between his jaw and his earlobe, a mere memory of Paul’s nibbling adventure on his bed. His heart raced and he gripped the sink tightly, trying to get his breathing under control.
It was weird how he’d known the kiss had happened, but it hadn’t been a certain, fixed incident in history until he saw the hickey. He was branded again, either unintentional or intentional because Paul had also been drunk but a little less so than George had been - but he’d branded George twice in one night. One he didn’t know about, and one that he did know about because he’d actually attached his mouth to his skin right there. George stared at his tired reflection in the mirror and touched the bruise with shaky fingers.
He rubbed. It didn’t come off.
George didn’t return to the living room until about thirty seconds later, when John yelled stop starin’ at yer nose and get back ‘ere! from downstairs and he’d noticed two small pimples on his right temple. John was still wiggling his eyebrows as George sat down in his previous spot, blank-faced and trying to get his heartbeat to slow the fuck down. Paul was already ignoring him, dancing his fingers across the fabric covering John’s knee.
“Issa beauty, though,” John whistled, leaning in a little closer to take a good look at the hickey. “Christ. Must’ve had some strong teeth.”
Paul choked on air.
“You alright?” John muttered with a smile, clapping him on the back. “Jealous that yours didn’t have strong teeth, then, son?”
“Maybe she didn’t get the opportunity,” George grumbled through gritted teeth, mouth pulled in smile that he was sure probably looked more like a grimace. “Maybe he fucked off too soon-”
“She said some weird stuff,” Paul interrupted through his coughing. He still wasn’t looking at George, but at John instead, and John wiped the tears in Paul’s eyes away with a smile. “So I darted. Rather have you nibble on me, mate.”
John flushed bright red and started laughing hysterically, and Paul grinned at him adoringly. He managed to be both disgustingly in love with John and stubbornly not in love with George at the same time, successfully ignoring his best friend and making him feel like shit in the process.
It was apparent, really, what the future outcome would be. John and Paul weren’t just John and Paul, they were John-and-Paul, two geniuses, a married couple, soulmates. They couldn’t stop touching each other in one way or another, every time they were in the same room it was a hand on a shoulder, or a fist against a bicep, or a finger on a knee. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, leg to leg. When they looked at each other there was this adoration, this mutual respect. They considered themselves to be equals, and though George knew for certain they liked him being ‘round, they didn’t consider him to be on equal footing as them.
It would never be Paul-and-George anymore. It wouldn’t even be John-Paul-and-George.
And honestly, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be fine with that.