Damn I'm fast.
Hey Beatlephiles! I'm too fast for my own personal wellbeing, i expect. this one's George's POV.
By the way, is it JUST me who noticed that "gorgeous" with an extra "E" spells "George-eous"?
Title: "Yer Blues"
Author: Darth Viye
Pairings: John/ George
Rating: Pg-13 I think
Timeframe: Slightly AU 1972-ish
Summary: John has really violent depression. Who can help him after his shocking suicide attempt?
Warnings: Language, slash
Why did I get dragged into this shit? Thought George. He buried his face in his hands, his cold fingers soothing against his tired eyes.
The hospital room that contained John Lennon wasn’t warm or cold but simply there. George hated that about hospitals. What purpose, he wondered dully, could be served by making the whole place feel like you’re already in limbo? George rubbed his eyes again, willing the feeling of sandpaper on his eyelids to go away. Wasn’t it bad enough that George had to be here in the first place, that John had to be here, without it being even more uncomfortable? The bedside chairs were apparently the most comfortable in the ward, according to the attending, but that of course only meant that a fucking spring wouldn’t poke out and make him a George-sickle. More like a George-in-the-box, he thought. The faintest twinge of a smile shoved its way across his lips, but it was banished soon enough as his eyes fell once again upon the sleeping form of John.
He was a wreck. His thin arms were heavily bandaged. The face that was framed by his messy cinnamon hair was bruised, scratched; the phrase “Somebody really hates this guy” came to mind. And it was true, George thought, someone did: John. Who’d have guessed?
George’s eyes stung suddenly-it was strange how vulnerable the tube under John’s nose made him look. Or maybe it was the way his eyelids kept twitching coupled with the crease between his brows. George contemplated him quietly for what seemed ages. Johns of every age and manner crept through his mind slowly, in a somber procession of what he’d thought he knew.
John was seventeen and hip, smoking a fag in Paul’s living room. George was gangly and fourteen, watching the then-godlike boy chatting with Paul about exotic chords like B7th.
Now they were in Hamburg, crowded into tiny living spaces that smelled mostly like piss and tobacco. John was laughing, and George had no idea why he couldn’t look away.
’62 rolled through his mind, then “Help!”, fucking around on a beach in the Bahamas and not even caring how cold it was. Another meek impression of a smile skittered over his face.
He reached down to brush a lock of hair out of John’s face and found that he was holding John’s hand. He tried to pull away, but even in sleep Lennon’s grip was strong. George smiled, almost a real smile this time, and pressed his lips to the back of John’s battered hand. The older man twitched in his sleep, and George slipped his hand out, suddenly realizing what this meant. Shit. What the hell? I’m not…like that. Like that, meaning like Brian. Damn John, always messing things up for other people…George shrugged and sighed. He definitely fancied women, that was for sure, but couldn’t he also like men? George shook his head slightly, because that wasn’t right.
I don’t like men…I like man. This man, the broken and dangerous man, the Lennon; that was man. Yeah. That was it.
George pecked John on the forehead and ran his hands through his hair, standing up to give his legs a stretch. Where the hell was Yoko? Didn’t she care that John was…What? John was…what? He didn’t know, and though he didn’t want to at all, he knew he’d find out. And soon, by the looks of it. Man was beginning to stir.