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On July 8th, 1969, the weather was stagnant, the wind completely dead. Paul didn't mind, seeing as he would spend the bulk of his day indoors, but walking from his car to EMI Studios felt unbearable. The entire outdoors felt like one big oven, and the cool of the air conditioning was heaven-sent.
Well, no time like the present. Paul ushered himself into the studio, greeting every employee with a small nod of the head and a "hello." Ringo was already there, who greeted Paul with a small wave and nothing more. It was 2:34 pm, and the session had begun.
At least, it would have, if George was there. John had vanished off the face of the planet, apparently gone off to Scotland with Yoko, and also gotten into a car crash. Years ago, Paul would have been devastated at the news, beside himself with worry, but all he could think of was how nice it'd be without the two-headed monster looming over him. John didn't give a fuck, and Paul wouldn't be surprised if he faked the news just to get out of work. He couldn't be bothered to care anymore.
Ringo sat behind the drums, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he waited. Paul could see him tapping out a rhythm on his thighs, most likely the fill for the song. Yesterday was the man's birthday, but they didn't do much to celebrate.
Unless you considered recording a pleasure, which it certainly wasn't these days.
"Is George here yet?" Paul asked in the waxing silence.
"Late, as usual," Ringo hummed, stopping his tapping.
"It's his song, for crying out loud," Paul muttered. "If he doesn't show up, we're doing my song instead."
" 'Course, Paul. 'Course."
Ringo resumed his tapping, the rhythmic syncopation being the only sound in the vast room. George's song had given Ringo a bit of trouble when it came to the drumbeat, being written in an odd time signature the man learned in India. Probably the only good thing George learned in that country, the rest of it was some holier-than-thou ideology that George kept shoving down their throats.
Paul eventually went to the guitar and strummed out a few bars of his next tune. After George's tune , they'd do his, and hopefully, John would be back by then.
After a few passes, a glance at the clock above the engineer's room told him it was 2:57. George was really late now.
"Probably stuck in traffic," Paul muttered when Ringo gave him a nervous look. "That, or he's decided to quit again."
The attempt at cynical humor wasn't taken well by Ringo, but he stopped his fretting and picked up his drumsticks. George would throw a fit if Paul touched his song in any way, just like when he suggested a more complex bassline.
"If he's not gonna show, do you want to do my song, or yours?"
"Yours," Ringo mechanically replied, and they soon set the groundwork for Paul's next song. He already had it planned out, a jovial tune about a homicidal maniac. Definitely single material, in Paul's own humble opinion.
Once he had his vision for the arrangement, he went at it with full force, all while George Martin's cold eyes observed from the engineer's room. Two out of four band members were present, and he found it hard to work with such low attendance. Yet Paul persevered, plunking away at his guitar and piano and whatever instruments and sounds he found acceptable.
It wasn't until Ringo pointed out how it was now 3:29 that he paused.
"George is really late now," he said in his usual quiet drawl. It was true, George was late, but consistently so. Always fifteen to twenty minutes, never a full hour, and especially not when they were working on his song.
When no one else moved, Paul rose. "I'm gonna call 'im," he announced to the two people in earshot, bounding over to the phone. He remembered the Kinfauns number, even if he hadn't called it in a while. Either today was record-high abysmal traffic, or George had left for good.
Ring…
Ring…
The phone rang out exactly twelve times before it clicked open. But before Paul could even greet who he assumed to be George on the other side, he heard a deep groan and a voice breathing huskily into the phone before a loud slam flooded Paul's ears, followed by the line ringing dead.
That wasn't normal. And seeing Ringo's anxious stares, he knew it would be unwise to leave it be. Something was wrong at George's house, and Paul suddenly felt a weight, as if it was his duty to check up on the younger man, even if it meant having to brave that unbearably hot summer weather.
"I'll check up on Geo," Paul muttered, already getting up to go. No one objected, for there was no real way Ringo would want to work without his close friend and no way Mr. Martin would accept the half-Beatles.
The drive to Kinfauns took longer than he expected, the radio keeping Paul company. But then the host mentioned the name of the next band and Paul quickly shut it off. Back then, hearing his songs on the radio gave him a rush. Now, all it did was give him a thick, black, cloying guilt.
But alas, George's home pulled into view. Paul was somewhat jealous of the place. He, John, and Ringo had all bought upscale, extravagant apartments, but George had a proper house, just like his parents. The walls were all painted with a gorgeous colorful mural, one that was painted by George’s friends shortly after he bought it. Both of his cars were in the driveway, which meant he was home, but Paul felt uneasy. Someone must have broken in. The steel gate leading into the driveway was completely open, and the windows were as well. Paul felt like he knew less and less about George these days, but he knew the man had grown desperate to protect his privacy. Paul tried not to let his nervousness show, knocking firmly at the door.
No response.
Paul knocked again and then tried the handle. Unlocked. The fear that someone had broken in became a very frightening reality. Without any hesitation, Paul let himself in.
The house seemed to be in order, no broken glass or blood, the ornate art nouveau decorations still as pristine as ever. He's pretty sure that George got the idea from Pattie, and he had to admit she had good taste. It was mature without looking kitschy.
Paul didn't dare call out for George in case the intruder was still inside. He grabbed a heavy brass candlestick and crept up the stairs, poised to strike. It was hard to keep his heart from pounding in his chest.
He had never been this far in George's house, upstairs and scouring the second floor, but there was no time to worry about intruding. He had to find George, now.
His hand turned the handle to the master bedroom, and Paul stuck his head in to scan it. The windows were open but the curtains were drawn, fluttering in the breeze. The only sign of a struggle was the phone, unplugged and thrown across the floor.
That and the unconscious man draped over the bed.
Paul dropped the candlestick and started to tap George's cheek, trying to stir him. But the younger man just grumbled and turned away.
"Leave me alone..." he whimpered, burying himself into the sheets.
"Did someone break in…?" Paul wondered.
"No, aside from you," came George's frustrated reply. "Now go away. "
Paul stared at George's prone form before clicking his tongue and turning on his heel.
"I thought there was a burglar or something," he said. "I thought you were in trouble— I was worried about you. Glad to know it was all a waste of time," he spat.
George groggily blinked, rubbing his face, before slowly pulling up into a seated position. "...someone broke in?" he asked.
From where Paul was standing, he could see the way George slouched into the pillows, his gaze completely unfocused.
"Your front door was unlocked," Paul hesitantly began. "And the gate was open.”
“Fans… jamming rocks in there...” George mumbled.
“Yeah, but you didn't show up at Abbey Road, and I assumed..."
"That's in five hours," George grumbled.
Paul cast a glance at his watch.
"It's a quarter past four," he said.
It was almost as if you could see the individual neurons firing in George's brain, taking that information and processing it, realizing that he was late.
"Oh," was all he had to say, crawling out of bed and onto the carpeted floor, but then he wobbled and quickly hurled himself at the closest wall to stabilize.
"Christ George, what are you on right now?" Paul hissed. The way George was acting resembled that of a drunk man.
"Nothing," he said, still braced against the wall. It was hard to focus on anything in the room aside from Paul's harsh glare. "Sorry," he muttered. He involuntarily shivered and wobbled back to his bed, feeling so disoriented from the few steps he took. " 'S too cold," he muttered when he noticed Paul still had that tense look on his face.
"...you're sick," Paul muttered. "I thought you left the band again—"
"I don't care. Piss off," George said. "Go away."
"I was worried about you, you know!"
"Then stop. I'm fine, I don't need your pity."
"You call this fine?" Paul asked. "You're really out of it, mate."
Mate. That word made George's skin boil. That, and the insinuation that Paul knew more about George's wellbeing than George himself.
" Fuck you, " George growled. "Don't fuckin'— act like you give a shit about me!"
"Geo—"
"You're staring at me like I'm some fuckin' kid, " he howled. "Like I'm some brat you gotta babysit—"
"Well maybe that's 'cause you're screaming like one!"
"You always fucking do this! " George roared and jumped out of his bed to lunge at Paul, because he'd never listen to words, never. George needed to hit him so that he'd finally understand—
And then the entire world tilted and George found himself flat on his back, head pounding.
Paul had watched him come, foaming at the mouth, and then trip and collapse onto the floor, chest heaving, all while standing back in shock. George had yelled at him, insulted him, yet Paul couldn't leave him, not when he was hurting. He dropped to the floor and felt George's forehead with the back of his hand, the skin blisteringly heated. George could barely walk on his own and was shivering as if the summer heat wasn't blasting the entire house through every open window. He had no reason to be surprised that George was running a fever and incredibly nasty one at it.
" Stop touching me, " George whimpered, trying and failing to get out of Paul's grasp. "I hate you."
Paul had chosen to believe George's words were his feverish mind becoming clogged with delirium.
At the very least, he should call Ringo and explain what happened. After picking up George's shockingly light body and depositing him back on the bed, he plugged the telephone back into the wall and rang up EMI.
As he waited for someone to pick up, he looked at George. Back when they toured, they had caught sight of each other shirtless and naked all the time, yet now, it felt intrusive. George was wearing nothing but his boxers, his slim frame in full display. He could count George's individual ribs, all under his flushed skin.
"You've lost weight," Paul observed, and George just chuckled weakly in response.
"Cocaine'll do that to you," George said back. Paul had half a mind to tell him that he should stop, but Ringo came onto the line.
" Where are you? What's going on? "
"George's sick, he's got a fever. You're gonna have to cancel the session."
Paul could hear Ringo loudly exhale into the receiver.
" Alright, what about tomorrow? "
"George is… really out of it right now. I doubt he'll be good tomorrow either."
"Shut the fuck up!" George screamed. "You don't know shit—"
" Was that him? " Ringo asked.
"Yeah..." Paul groaned.
" Sorry for your loss, " Ringo chuckled.
Click.
Well. Paul could call it a day and head home, waiting for George to get better… but he couldn't. He had an out but refused to take it. Paul wouldn't consider himself to be matronly, but out of the four of them, well, he was the best person to be here. Even if George very loudly declared his hatred for Paul, he'd take care of the lad. He was like his baby brother, after all.
"Did you have anything today? Any medicine, food… water? "
George grumbled, clutching his pounding skull in between shaky fingers. "Please, just stop... "
"Stop what? Caring about you?"
"Looking at me like I can't take care of myself!"
"Did you take any medicine or not?"
George flipped over so that he didn’t have to face Paul anymore, tangling himself in the blankets. He was too tired to get up and make Paul leave.
"No, I didn't," he admitted.
"Do you want me to get you some?" Paul's voice had taken on the tone reserved for parents berating ornery children.
George grunted, and Paul had known him long enough to know that yes, he did want some medicine, but he was too prideful to outright ask.
"Check the medicine cabinet," he muttered. Paul wanted to scream back that he's never been in George's master bath, that he had no way of knowing where said cabinet was, but alas.
He should probably make George lunch too. As Paul examined the small jars and bottles, he thought about what to make. Paul was a far cry from a competent chef, they all were, but he could at least fry a decent egg. His hand grasped a small case of aspirin and took one out, and then decided that George would be better off with two.
"I'm sorry," George called out. "I can't think straight."
"It's alright," came Paul's calm reply. "At least you have an excuse." He came out of the bathroom, having filled a small glass of water for George. "Here."
Silently, George took the pills and the water and downed it quickly, handing back the empty glass.
"Ta, Paul," he muttered.
"I'll still take care of you," Paul said, "even if you act like you want nothing to do with me."
"That's not true," George whispered.
"You told me to fuck off at least three times by now," Paul pointed out, and George's expression turned to one of guilt.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't worry about it, alright? Just get dressed and come down; I'll make you something." Paul turned to leave, unaware of George's searching gaze on his back. Illness and fever, it'd make anyone go loony. And George had apologized, so it wasn't all bad. He cared about George, he really did. It was just a shame that it was all falling apart.
At least Paul was able to find the kitchen and a pan easily enough. George had quite a spacious kitchen, which was more than a little odd considering he didn't eat much at all, but Paul didn't dwell on it. He pulled out two eggs, cracked them in the pan, and got to work.
About midway through cooking, George approached, wearing a robe and a pair of slippers.
"You forgot to season those," he said as he glanced at the eggs.
"Oh, shut it," Paul chided. "They're fine. You should be laying down anyway."
To his amusement, George just pouted, hand awkwardly perched on Paul's shoulder. He huffed, then left, hopefully to lay down on a couch.
It didn't take much longer for the eggs to finish, and Paul took them to George. It was surprising how ill he was, after all, he seemed fine yesterday… or had he? Maybe it was because it was Ringo's birthday, and he didn't want his friend to worry. Paul had assumed George's rotten attitude was from sleep deprivation, (their last session had run on until midnight,) but him being ill made more sense.
Well, the faster he recovered, the better. That was all that mattered, and Paul had to admit he felt a little proud when George shoveled down the yolky mess he made without complaint.
"I don't get it," he said when he finished, wiping the residual yolk on the sleeve of his robe.
"Don't get what?" Paul asked, taking George's dirty plate.
" You, " he said. "Coming here, making me breakfast… it's almost as if you care about me, but you don't. 'S confusing."
"Who says I don't care? Geo, you're like a brother to me—"
"Don't say that," George growled. "Stop saying that!" He shook his head violently before his hands flew up to catch it, forcefully calming down. He was like a rabid animal, trembling and hissing to himself.
"I hate you..." he muttered hollowly, his voice echoing the words over and over. "Why'd you come here?! You fucking— you care and then you don't and I don't understand! "
George kept shaking, his body violently jerking as Paul watched on helplessly.
"George, I think you should sleep now—"
Paul reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, to anchor him, and for a moment, it seemed to work. George had frozen up, but then his eyes went wide with not fear, but panic. Then, he lurched, as if an invisible chain tied to his stomach was yanked, hard.
George tried to open his mouth to warn Paul, but there was another spasm, and the two eggs he had just ingested came up again and splattered all over, his robe, the couch, Paul, the table.
He gagged again, and since he hadn't eaten in so long, all his intestines dredged up was bile. And Paul was just staring, watching him make a complete mess of himself.
It was at that point he finally broke, a large tear forming in his eye before George quickly wiped it away. Paul had come all this way, just them together alone, and yet he couldn't look past himself to see.
In the corner of his eye, he spotted Paul moving.
"Don't," George whispered hoarsely. His throat burned. "I'll clean it. I'll..."
"I'll draw up a bath," Paul announced, leaving the room. George could hear him stomp up the stairs, followed by water running through the pipes. He had to get up to take that bath, yet he felt so tired and empty aside from his disgust at himself.
Paul had already done so much, it wouldn't be fair of George to make him carry him up the stairs. He sloughed off his stained robe and threw it in the vague direction of the laundry room before shambling up. He felt like a corpse, barely conscious, flesh melting off his bones.
When he finally got to his bedroom after several minutes of clutching the handrails desperately, Paul passed him on the stairs.
"You can clean yourself, right?"
"Yeah, yeah… and, um, Paul?"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks," George said as he retreated upstairs.
Paul watched him go, his lengthy hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't know why he was doing this in all honesty.
He and George, they had always been mates. Even though things had grown tense between them, between all of them, really, he still wanted to pretend they were friends. Maybe that's why he was digging through doors and closets looking for a mop. Because he didn't want to believe George hated him, that maybe, just maybe, he could prove to George that he wasn't worth hating.
Even if it meant he had to clean up George's spewage.
"Surely my eggs weren't that bad..." Paul joked to himself as he went to the crime scene. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and got to work.
As he scrubbed, he wondered why George was so alone. He remembered how George was so sweet on the young Pattie Boyd, but their relationship had never gone anywhere. It felt like a shame, seeing as George had a nice little bungalow to live in, yet no family to share it with. Maybe his abstinence was for the same reason as Paul’s, not wanting to subject their fair lady to the burden of fame. Paul had entertained the thought of marrying Linda, yet it wasn’t the right time.
But he had a feeling it would never be the right time. Definitely not while the band was imploding, and certainly not when the public spotlight was trained on him. They used to get threats of hand-grenades being lobbed at them on-stage. Would Linda be able to live with that? Or little Heather? No, it was best if they stayed friends and nothing more, a decision that Paul didn’t have trouble accepting.
It wasn't until a good while later that he finished and soon decided to wait for George. He didn't want George to despise him, and the easiest way to patch things up was to ask outright what was wrong. They were friends; friends could be honest with each other.
It was getting late, and the wind had finally picked up, cooling down the house. It would be best to close the windows and lock the door, too. Don’t want anyone to get in.
As Paul went on his quest, he took note of the place. George didn't invite him over much, so it was all fairly new. In the living room was a wall where George had hung up his guitars, some they had used on tours and older records. The wall also displayed two sitars proudly, and a mandolin.
Then, he caught sight of the end table next to the couch, and the scraps of paper on it. Napkins and an envelope sat on it, coated in George's loopy cursive. They were lyrics, he realized, for songs Paul had only heard the snippets of. George had scratched out and rewritten so many lines that one of the napkins was torn.
He broke out of his stupor when the sound of water draining through pipes hit his ears. No time like the present, he thought, marching up.
"Geo? You decent?" Paul called into the bedroom.
"Yeah. Get in here," George called back.
Well, Paul didn't need to be told twice. He shuffled in, and sat on the edge of the bed, overlooking George's worn, frail body. His hair was moist and was soaking the pillows, but he didn't seem to care.
"I think I'm dying," George muttered before breaking out into a quiet chuckle.
"Stop being so dramatic," Paul chided. "You're tough and scrappy. You'll live."
George let out an exhale. "I just want to know why you're doing this."
"Well, I want to know why you hate me," Paul said. "We used to be best mates, y’know? What happened to that?"
"You met John," came George's simple reply.
Paul wanted to laugh.
"No, 'm serious," George said. " 'Cause you called John your partner, and 'm always baby brother, like 'm some lost duck following you. 'S not fair. I knew you first."
"Christ, Geo," Paul muttered, running a hand through his hair. "John's me partner, 'cause we write songs together." Was all this conflict truly because of a fit of childish jealousy?
"But I write songs too," George said. "Don't I?"
"Yeah, you do," Paul replied. "But you never asked to work together. You were always doing it solo."
"That's because you never offered!" George said, voice rising in volume. "You never gave me a chance— I'd play a song and then John would show up with something and I'd just get swept to the side and get my two songs and that's it—"
"Hey, shh, calm down," Paul cooed. George hadn't noticed he was shaking, on the verge of tears, until Paul leaned over and held him.
"It's just unfair," George moaned. "You came in here, you made me breakfast, cleaned up my vomit, and I almost think that it's proof you care, but then we go into the studio and it's all about you and no one else. I can't stand it. I can't tell if you care or if I'm just wasting my time."
Paul gaped at him for a moment as the words sank in. "I'm sorry," he spilled out. "I didn't even realize—"
He was cut off by George pulling him down onto the bed, partially climbing on top of him.
“Geo—!”
“Don’t— please, I just want to know one thing. I’ll get off of you, I just need to know what do you hate about me?" he asked.
"What— wait— Geo! I can't do that!"
"Please," George said. "Tell me one thing you love and hate about me."
Paul sighed and complied with his unorthodox request.
"I hate how you've changed," Paul said. "Well, everything's changed now, but I feel like you're gone. That little kid I met on the bus… it's hard to see him when I look at you. And I guess it just hurts to know that we were glued at the hip, and now you can't stand being near me," he rambled. "And as for love… I don't know."
" Paul, " George begged. " Please. "
"Okay, uh, your humor— I love your sense of humor," he said. "And… your songs. They're good. I never expected you to write like that, it's… something. "
"Change..." George echoed.
"Yeah, it's different."
"But it's not bad, right?"
Paul shook his head. "No, it's not. Well, it makes me a little nervous, really."
George chuckled, then threw his leg over so that he was resting on top of Paul.
"I love your mind, how smart you are. And how you're so generous, worrying about those worse off than you," Paul said. "That's a bit more than one thing, but is it good enough?"
George nodded, leaning forward so that his torso was on Paul's, the residual water from the bath soaking his shirt. "Do you want to know what I love about you?"
Paul gave the tiniest nod of his head.
"I love how driven you are. Always working, pushing to do better and better. You never stop or give up, you're like a machine. If someone's feeling down, you break your back coming to their house to nurse them," George said, smiling. "You're so talented but you still work your ass off."
"Thanks," Paul muttered, partially in disbelief. They were openly praising each other, something Paul couldn't recall them ever doing, even before the band. That wasn't something you did, and Paul became acutely aware of George's weight on him, their hearts beating away.
"Nothing can stop you," George said, "or slow you down."
"Aside from the band falling apart," Paul said. "But enough about what's good, why do you hate me?"
George shifted, his eyes staring directly into Paul's. His gaze was intense, deep and dark, no light able to pierce their depths.
"I hate how driven you are. Because for all the things you do, you're moving too fast to see the bigger picture. Your body is going but your head is still trying to catch up." George was now inches from Paul's face, one of his hands had reached up to touch Paul's. All the while, he still stared into Paul's soul. He could feel himself coming undone. "You're moving so fast, you're so focused on the road ahead of you, that you miss every sign along the way."
Paul could feel every little breath George gave, every drop of water and sweat that fell onto him. Both of their hearts were pounding, he realized, and then George's other hand came up to the side of his face.
Then, George brought himself down so that their lips were touching, the faintest of contact. It was so odd, so different and strange and alien, so… dirty.
And it ended too soon.
George pulled back, a morose look on his face. "...I shouldn't have done that," he muttered. It was regret, but he didn't apologize. Paul found that his hands were moving of their own accord, reaching to feel George's face, his jaw, the thin layer of stubble.
And then he kissed George back. Their teeth clattered together as George froze in shock before quickly melting into the sensation, leaning more into the kiss, grabbing and clawing at Paul's shirt.
Paul flipped over so that he was on top of George, straddling the younger man and letting his hands drift downwards, exploring George's slender back before slipping under the simple towel he wore. He grabbed George's firm ass and squeezed it, George finally breaking their kiss to let out a loud whine.
They stared at each other, George's face completely flushed, the reality of what just happened hitting Paul, hard.
They had kissed. George loved him. It was queer and it was wrong and he should get off of George, now, but he liked it and George obviously did too, and oh god they kissed—
"Paul, I wasn't thinking straight, I wasn't—" George began to ramble, but Paul put a finger to his lips to silence him.
"If you weren't, this would have never happened," he muttered, the words washing over George like waves lapping at the beach. He nodded, and then his chest began to heave.
Paul feared he was about to throw up again, but then George wheezed, laughter bubbling past his lips. He wrapped his legs around Paul and buried his head in his neck.
He didn't say anything, just breathing and panting into Paul, but slowly, his grip began to loosen.
"Hey, you're knackered..." Paul whispered.
"I don't want to go to sleep, 'cause you'll be gone when I wake up," George whined back. " Paulie. "
"...you're sick, y'know. I don't want to catch whatever you got."
"Fuck you," George whispered. "Hare Krishna."
Paul's soft laughter resonated in his ears.
"Hare Krishna. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Paul..."
Paul…
He reached out yearning, praying that if he held Paul, he would stay. He needed it, he craved it. After all this, it would be too painful if it turned out that it was all a hallucination.
The night was spent in fitful sleep, the insides of George's skull being broiled while the rest of him froze. He never quite fell asleep, the entire night dragging on in one timeless mass, full of too much discord to ever properly settle.
Even so, his body was too worn out to continue its distressed struggle. Everything comes to an end, the night, the band, his love. All things must pass, he thought. It was the same phrase he had told himself the past three years and only now did he hate the truth he preached. Even if they kissed, Paul would leave and that would be it. It was the only natural conclusion.
So when George awoke in his spacious bed, feeling cold and disoriented, he knew his worst fears had come true.
"Moring, Geo," Paul yawned. "Sleep well?"
George stared at him for a moment. Doe eyes, small pouty lips, there was no mistake that it was Paul. He could see Paul's bare chest and his hairy forearms, the rest under the sheets.
"You stayed," George muttered. He could feel tears threatening to spill. " You're still here! "
" 'Course," Paul drawled. "We're partners, aren't we—"
Paul wasn't able to finish, for George had closed the distance between them and planted a heavy kiss on his lips.
"Getting an early start on the day?" Paul jokingly asked, breaking contact. He looked tousled, messy, but positively glowing.
"I've been wanting to do this for years," George breathed out. "Oh, Paulie, " he moaned. "I want you, I need you."
Paul smiled, lips parted. "I'm here for you," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. We have all day."
"Change isn't bad, right?"
Paul felt something deep within him stir, a strange new desire growing.
"No, I think this one's nice."
"Just nice? " George chuckled. "Surely I can change your mind about that."
"I'd love that," Paul muttered in his ear.
---
"So what happened to you?" John hissed.
The man looked exhausted, tired from his disastrous trip to Scotland. He and Yoko had actually gotten into an accident, with Yoko bandaged up and resting in another room. Paul should have been concerned for her, especially since she was pregnant, yet his mind kept drifting. John, who was a meter from his face, had never felt so distant…
"Oi!" John barked. "It's like you're on another planet."
"Don't mind him, he's just in love," Ringo called from his perch behind the drums. It was almost as if he knew.
John grinned. “You and that American bird finally marry?”
“Lin and I are just good friends,” Paul muttered. He liked Linda plenty, she didn’t stir him in the way George did yesterday.
"Spare me the details," John huffed. "Just tell me what we're working on."
Glancing across the room, Paul caught sight of George, whose gaze softened, his lips pulling into a smile. Paul quickly glanced away, already feeling his face warm up.
"W-We're doing George's song," Paul said, hoping John didn't notice his stutter. Thankfully, he just snorted and pulled out his guitar.
"About time we recorded something good," John grumbled.
“Aye,” Paul agreed, pulling up his bass. “Ready, Geo?”
George nodded, and Paul couldn’t help but notice how lightly he moved.
“ Alright, ” George Martin called from the control room. “ Here comes the Sun, take twelve-and-a-half. ”
The rhythm and backing tracks were already finished, so all that remained were the vocals, an undertaking Paul found to be very enjoyable. Maybe it was the fact that George’s eyes locked deeply with Paul’s as he sang out, “Little Darling,” or the fact that they were sharing a microphone, inches from each other’s face.
He didn’t know much at all, his head spinning, face flushed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was feverish.
But then George began to sing, and a calming wave washed over Paul.
And he knew, George’s words coming over him, that they were true. It’s been long and cold and lonely—
But it’s alright.