(no subject)
Pairing(s) in the story: John Lennon/George Harrison
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Title of story: Busy Hands
Rating of story: PG 13ish right now.
Word count of story: 2,400
Chapter 3 of 3
Brief summary: George is agonizing about his reaction to John and his busy hands.
Notes: This is the final chapter. I didn't really want to end it so soon, but I'm moving in the next couple of days and won't have an internet connection for god knows how long. I wanted to have this finished before I left, in case I lost interest or something. I know I hate it when I read fics that aren't finished! Thank you so much to those who have read.
Tensions between George and John intensified as the weeks passed, though if John was bothered at all by it George couldn’t tell. For whatever reason, John had wormed his way under George’s skin, and the younger of the two lads was finding himself increasingly at odds with his friend. John acted as his usual self, doing whatever it was that pleased him, and taking the odd swipe at George and his ego whenever he could. It was unspoken; this strange power driven feud between them, and George was starting to wonder if it was all in his head.
“What’s going on between you and John?” Stuart finally asked him one afternoon on their way to lunch after playing all night. George didn’t know whether to be relieved that he wasn’t crazy, or worried that whatever was going on was noticeable enough for Stuart to pick up on. Though, since he spent a majority of his home life with only his mother and two sisters, Stuart had ended up a little more sensitive than the rest of them anyway.
“Nothing,” George replied, looking away. He paused for a moment before looking back, adding, “Why, has he said something to you?”
“No,” Stuart confirmed, looking at him curiously. “No, he’s just been acting rather strange when it comes to you, is all. I thought maybe two’d had a fight, or something.”
“Oh,” A desperate little voice in George’s head wondered what exactly Stuart meant by ‘strange’, but he thought it better not to ask.
Realizing George wasn’t going to divulge any information, Stuart elaborated. “He’s always ranting about you to me. About the girls you bring back, or that you’ve been giving him the cold shoulder.” He paused to light his cigarette, tossing his match away and looking at him pointedly, “That you’d rather kip with Paul than any of us.”
George laughed in disbelief. “I wouldn’t rather sleep with Paul than anybody! He was the only one that offered to share his bed.” George shook his head, losing his focus on the conversation. Why should John care if he brings the occasional girl back for a bit of action, or that he had to sleep with his head next to Paul’s stinking feet every night?
“I know. I’m just telling you what he said.” Stuart offered with a shrug of the shoulders, bringing George back to the present. “I didn’t know any better, I’d say he had a bit of a thing for you.”
George avoided Stuart’s eyes, stepping off of the pavement into the small restaurant. “That’s just soft,” He muttered.
-
The sheer youthful exuberance that got them through the first month or so of shows soon wore off, and was replaced with Preludin, a German dieting pill that gave them all the energy they needed to get through their sometimes grueling shifts at the Kaiserkeller. If they were appearing lax in their performance at all, one of the staff would simply give them a pill and a pint and they would be good to go for another few hours, at least. As a result of taking the pills, they were drinking more and more of that German beer, in order to quench the thirst that the drugs gave them, making them as drunk as the patrons of the club always seemed to be.
There were a few side affects of the drug, the first of which being an inability to sleep. George would lie in his bed, sweating, muttering to himself, wondering why it was he hadn’t been able to sleep yet. What annoyed him especially was that thus far Paul had resisted the drug, sticking to beer only, and so he was able to sleep like a baby beside him.
George lay in bed, elbowing his sleeping mate’s legs in annoyance as he listened to Paul snoring softly from the other end of the bed. He shifted and rolled to his side, hitching the blanket up over his shoulder and looking towards John’s bed. Something in his chest jumped when he saw that John was staring at him, unblinkingly.
George waited a beat before hissing, “Do you mind?”
John finally blinked, but didn’t say anything. A slow smile crept to his face.
Deciding he would just ignore him, George closed his eyes, reminding himself that even though he couldn’t feel it, his body was tired. A pregnant silence filled the room, and George battled with the urge to open his eyes again, to look at John. He heard the sound of sheets rustling, and the unmistakable creak the told him John was repositioning himself on his bed, and then silence took over again.
Minutes passed and the silence carried on, until he heard it. Heavy breathing, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, the sound of one those God forsaken hands pumping wildly against skin, and finally, a moan.
John was wanking. John was wanking five feet away from George. John was wanking five feet away from George and most probably staring at him.
Before the first stirrings of arousal could even kick in George was half way across the room, falling into his trousers and out the door, shoeless. He stormed out the fire escape, shaking with rage and increasing arousal. It wasn’t until he reached the street he realized it was raining. He felt a fleeting bit of rage for Bruno, making them live in a windowless pit, closed off from the world outside. Not wanting to stray too far from the Kino in just his trousers, he paced back and forth for a few minutes until the door banged open and John appeared, looking pale, rosy cheeked and quite disheveled. He’d apparently decided he only had time after his wank ended to throw on underwear, a shirt, his glasses, and one sock before following him out. George could only let out a short, crazed laugh at his expense.
“George-” He started, taking a step in his direction. George took a step back and held his hands up.
“Fuck off, John.” He warned. John ignored him and took another step towards him, and George took another back, continuing their bizarre dance. “Stay away from me.”
“Listen,” He soothed, finally standing still. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, alright? I was having a laugh. Come back inside.”
“Didn’t mean to upset me?” George let out a high pitched laugh, feeling now like he’d truly lost his mind. He combed his hands through his hair and pointed an accusing finger in John’s direction. “That’s all you ever mean to do!”
John’s apologetic face changed quickly into a furious one, “So I’m the cunt, am I? Looking in the fucking mirror, son!” He stomped over to him, his one bare foot comically splashing through a puddle as he grabbed onto George by the shoulders, almost shaking him. “You’ve made it your life’s fucking work to upset me!”
George brushed his arms away before shoving at John’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “I’ve not done anything to you.”
“Bringing those girls around! Bum-chumming with Paul day and night! Acting like I don’t even fucking exist to you!” The venom in John’s voice died down, “You know bloody well I fucking want you, do you have to rub my fucking nose in it?” He averted his eyes quickly, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his shirt to busy his shaking hands.
So many thoughts exploded through George’s mind that he couldn’t even find one to hold onto. He shivered in the rain, staring at John blankly.
John cleared his throat and tossed his glasses back on, pushing George away with a cold firmness. “You’ll catch your death out here if you don’t come in soon.”
He disappeared back into the cinema, the door closing quietly behind him.
-
There was no excuse for them not to talk about their confrontation since neither of them was anywhere near drunk enough to play at forgetting it happened. Despite that, they went on for a while doing so. George guessed John was embarrassed by what he’d admitted, since he himself was embarrassed of the entire outburst. Despite having not really said anything, George felt frighteningly vulnerable, and so he and John continued to orbit around each other, never coming too close.
It was no secret that the Reeperbahn was full of rowdy, tough characters. The boys prided themselves on their Liverpool upbringing, which meant for the most part they were fine to deal with the violence that occasionally exploded while they were on stage, so long as it was at arms length.
George was alone on stage, eating vinegar drenched chips for dinner for the seventh night in a row when the fight broke out. John had left with a giggling girl minutes prior, and George tried not to have a reaction. He took a few lazy steps back as the fight approached, licking his fingers clean as he watched the brawl escalate disinterestedly. He found his whiskey and coke and took the few final gulps, setting it down on top of the piano. They were on a break, and he was about to try his charms out on his favourite young barmaid when someone fired off the tear gas in the direction of the stage.
“Oh, fuck,” He coughed, throwing his chips down and rubbing his fingers in his eyes. Common sense told him this was a stupid move, but it was the only way to instantly alleviate some of the pain. Leave it to the fucking Germans to spoil his supper. He tried through blurred vision to find the door in the back of the stage, cursing to himself under his breath as the sound of the brawl intensified. His eyes were burning, his nose was running, and he was starting to feel short of breath.
He fumbled for the door blindly until it opened in front of him, and he felt someone grab him by the shirt and yank him through before slamming him up against it. “Ow, what the-” He felt the hands he’d recognize anywhere gently take his face, thumbs ghosting over his closed eyes, as if to assess the damage.
“Bloody Germans,” He heard John grumble, before he was taken by the elbow and led away. “Come on.”
George complied, stumbling along beside his friend as he was led down a set of stairs into the basement. He figured John was taking him to the lavatory there. The door clicked shut behind them and moments later he heard the water come on. George blinked repeatedly, growing annoyed when his burning eyes started to water, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Are you alright?” John sounded soft, but distant.
“It’s the gas. I’m not crying.”
“I know it's the gas, but I’m asking if you’re alright,” He felt a hand on his back, leading him towards the water.
“Brilliant, mate,” George coughed and took hold of the sink, allowing John’s hand at the back of his head to guide him towards the stream of water. He rinsed his eyes for a good ten minutes, until John allowed him back up. George sniffled, the gas still making his nose runny, and lifted his arm to dry his eyes with his sleeve. John grabbed his hands and forced them down.
“Don’t. It’ll still be in your clothes, I reckon,” George nodded and blinked repeatedly, his eyes feeling puffy and strange. John stepped towards him and lifted his own arm up, taking George’s chin one hand and starting to carefully thumb dry his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve on the other. The closeness and John’s hands on his face felt soothing, and how matter how hard he tried to push it way, it was also exciting. It reminded him of their kiss.
In response to John’s caring gesture, he felt a wave of guilt about the last couple of months wash over him. “I’m sorry,” He swallowed, hesitantly lifting his hands and searching for John’s arms.
“Don’t worry on it, mate. Didn’t tear gas yourself, did you?” John chuckled, his breath dancing across George’s face. George shivered and shook his head once.
“No, not about that,” He pulled away a little, forcing his eyes open so he could look at his friend. “About,” He turned his head away and let out a choking cough, annoyed that the tear gas was still affecting him. “About the way things have been, lately.” He hesitatingly took John’s hands, “Between us.”
“Oh,” John’s hands twitched but didn’t pull away. His face went through a series of changes, as if he were trying to decide on a reaction. He eventually fell on sincere, which didn’t happen often, “I am, too.”
George coughed again, turning into his shoulder to keep from doing it right in John’s face, before turning back, “What happened to your bird, then?” John looked confused. “The blond one you took off with a few minutes before,” George clarified.
“Ahhh,” John nodded solemnly. “I, uh… it sounded like it was all going to shit upstairs. Thought you might need me.”
George was overcome with affection for the older boy, briefly forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to be acting queer or strange. He forgot about his normal family, his average upbringing, and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to kiss boys. He threw aside that it was wrong and supposedly disgusting and grabbed John by the back of the neck, drawing him in close enough to kiss.
After a startled pause, John kissed him back fiercely, snaking his arms around George’s waist and crushing their bodies together with a muffled moan against his lips. John pushed him up against the wall, his hands sliding down to grab George’s arse, lifting him slightly so he could grind against him with feverish intensity. George let out an appreciative moan and inhaled sharply before succumbing to a fit of coughs, his chest still tight from the tear gas. John patiently waited for him to catch his breath again, slowing his hips just slightly and nuzzling into the younger mans neck.
“You know,” He picked up the pace again, his hips moving in circles against the young guitarist. George's hips twitched and he let out an aroused whimper, which dissolved into a moan as John carried on steadily. “You taste like whiskey and coke.” He captured him in another kiss, tongue exploring excitedly before he pulled back and looked at him. George wondered how those eyes staring him down could have ever made him feel anything but fucking amazing. “It’s still bloody brilliant.”
-
Not the best ending, but I figure its still open for a follow up chapter or two if I'm so inclined later.
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Title of story: Busy Hands
Rating of story: PG 13ish right now.
Word count of story: 2,400
Chapter 3 of 3
Brief summary: George is agonizing about his reaction to John and his busy hands.
Notes: This is the final chapter. I didn't really want to end it so soon, but I'm moving in the next couple of days and won't have an internet connection for god knows how long. I wanted to have this finished before I left, in case I lost interest or something. I know I hate it when I read fics that aren't finished! Thank you so much to those who have read.
Tensions between George and John intensified as the weeks passed, though if John was bothered at all by it George couldn’t tell. For whatever reason, John had wormed his way under George’s skin, and the younger of the two lads was finding himself increasingly at odds with his friend. John acted as his usual self, doing whatever it was that pleased him, and taking the odd swipe at George and his ego whenever he could. It was unspoken; this strange power driven feud between them, and George was starting to wonder if it was all in his head.
“What’s going on between you and John?” Stuart finally asked him one afternoon on their way to lunch after playing all night. George didn’t know whether to be relieved that he wasn’t crazy, or worried that whatever was going on was noticeable enough for Stuart to pick up on. Though, since he spent a majority of his home life with only his mother and two sisters, Stuart had ended up a little more sensitive than the rest of them anyway.
“Nothing,” George replied, looking away. He paused for a moment before looking back, adding, “Why, has he said something to you?”
“No,” Stuart confirmed, looking at him curiously. “No, he’s just been acting rather strange when it comes to you, is all. I thought maybe two’d had a fight, or something.”
“Oh,” A desperate little voice in George’s head wondered what exactly Stuart meant by ‘strange’, but he thought it better not to ask.
Realizing George wasn’t going to divulge any information, Stuart elaborated. “He’s always ranting about you to me. About the girls you bring back, or that you’ve been giving him the cold shoulder.” He paused to light his cigarette, tossing his match away and looking at him pointedly, “That you’d rather kip with Paul than any of us.”
George laughed in disbelief. “I wouldn’t rather sleep with Paul than anybody! He was the only one that offered to share his bed.” George shook his head, losing his focus on the conversation. Why should John care if he brings the occasional girl back for a bit of action, or that he had to sleep with his head next to Paul’s stinking feet every night?
“I know. I’m just telling you what he said.” Stuart offered with a shrug of the shoulders, bringing George back to the present. “I didn’t know any better, I’d say he had a bit of a thing for you.”
George avoided Stuart’s eyes, stepping off of the pavement into the small restaurant. “That’s just soft,” He muttered.
-
The sheer youthful exuberance that got them through the first month or so of shows soon wore off, and was replaced with Preludin, a German dieting pill that gave them all the energy they needed to get through their sometimes grueling shifts at the Kaiserkeller. If they were appearing lax in their performance at all, one of the staff would simply give them a pill and a pint and they would be good to go for another few hours, at least. As a result of taking the pills, they were drinking more and more of that German beer, in order to quench the thirst that the drugs gave them, making them as drunk as the patrons of the club always seemed to be.
There were a few side affects of the drug, the first of which being an inability to sleep. George would lie in his bed, sweating, muttering to himself, wondering why it was he hadn’t been able to sleep yet. What annoyed him especially was that thus far Paul had resisted the drug, sticking to beer only, and so he was able to sleep like a baby beside him.
George lay in bed, elbowing his sleeping mate’s legs in annoyance as he listened to Paul snoring softly from the other end of the bed. He shifted and rolled to his side, hitching the blanket up over his shoulder and looking towards John’s bed. Something in his chest jumped when he saw that John was staring at him, unblinkingly.
George waited a beat before hissing, “Do you mind?”
John finally blinked, but didn’t say anything. A slow smile crept to his face.
Deciding he would just ignore him, George closed his eyes, reminding himself that even though he couldn’t feel it, his body was tired. A pregnant silence filled the room, and George battled with the urge to open his eyes again, to look at John. He heard the sound of sheets rustling, and the unmistakable creak the told him John was repositioning himself on his bed, and then silence took over again.
Minutes passed and the silence carried on, until he heard it. Heavy breathing, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, the sound of one those God forsaken hands pumping wildly against skin, and finally, a moan.
John was wanking. John was wanking five feet away from George. John was wanking five feet away from George and most probably staring at him.
Before the first stirrings of arousal could even kick in George was half way across the room, falling into his trousers and out the door, shoeless. He stormed out the fire escape, shaking with rage and increasing arousal. It wasn’t until he reached the street he realized it was raining. He felt a fleeting bit of rage for Bruno, making them live in a windowless pit, closed off from the world outside. Not wanting to stray too far from the Kino in just his trousers, he paced back and forth for a few minutes until the door banged open and John appeared, looking pale, rosy cheeked and quite disheveled. He’d apparently decided he only had time after his wank ended to throw on underwear, a shirt, his glasses, and one sock before following him out. George could only let out a short, crazed laugh at his expense.
“George-” He started, taking a step in his direction. George took a step back and held his hands up.
“Fuck off, John.” He warned. John ignored him and took another step towards him, and George took another back, continuing their bizarre dance. “Stay away from me.”
“Listen,” He soothed, finally standing still. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, alright? I was having a laugh. Come back inside.”
“Didn’t mean to upset me?” George let out a high pitched laugh, feeling now like he’d truly lost his mind. He combed his hands through his hair and pointed an accusing finger in John’s direction. “That’s all you ever mean to do!”
John’s apologetic face changed quickly into a furious one, “So I’m the cunt, am I? Looking in the fucking mirror, son!” He stomped over to him, his one bare foot comically splashing through a puddle as he grabbed onto George by the shoulders, almost shaking him. “You’ve made it your life’s fucking work to upset me!”
George brushed his arms away before shoving at John’s chest, pushing him against the wall. “I’ve not done anything to you.”
“Bringing those girls around! Bum-chumming with Paul day and night! Acting like I don’t even fucking exist to you!” The venom in John’s voice died down, “You know bloody well I fucking want you, do you have to rub my fucking nose in it?” He averted his eyes quickly, taking his glasses off and rubbing them on his shirt to busy his shaking hands.
So many thoughts exploded through George’s mind that he couldn’t even find one to hold onto. He shivered in the rain, staring at John blankly.
John cleared his throat and tossed his glasses back on, pushing George away with a cold firmness. “You’ll catch your death out here if you don’t come in soon.”
He disappeared back into the cinema, the door closing quietly behind him.
-
There was no excuse for them not to talk about their confrontation since neither of them was anywhere near drunk enough to play at forgetting it happened. Despite that, they went on for a while doing so. George guessed John was embarrassed by what he’d admitted, since he himself was embarrassed of the entire outburst. Despite having not really said anything, George felt frighteningly vulnerable, and so he and John continued to orbit around each other, never coming too close.
It was no secret that the Reeperbahn was full of rowdy, tough characters. The boys prided themselves on their Liverpool upbringing, which meant for the most part they were fine to deal with the violence that occasionally exploded while they were on stage, so long as it was at arms length.
George was alone on stage, eating vinegar drenched chips for dinner for the seventh night in a row when the fight broke out. John had left with a giggling girl minutes prior, and George tried not to have a reaction. He took a few lazy steps back as the fight approached, licking his fingers clean as he watched the brawl escalate disinterestedly. He found his whiskey and coke and took the few final gulps, setting it down on top of the piano. They were on a break, and he was about to try his charms out on his favourite young barmaid when someone fired off the tear gas in the direction of the stage.
“Oh, fuck,” He coughed, throwing his chips down and rubbing his fingers in his eyes. Common sense told him this was a stupid move, but it was the only way to instantly alleviate some of the pain. Leave it to the fucking Germans to spoil his supper. He tried through blurred vision to find the door in the back of the stage, cursing to himself under his breath as the sound of the brawl intensified. His eyes were burning, his nose was running, and he was starting to feel short of breath.
He fumbled for the door blindly until it opened in front of him, and he felt someone grab him by the shirt and yank him through before slamming him up against it. “Ow, what the-” He felt the hands he’d recognize anywhere gently take his face, thumbs ghosting over his closed eyes, as if to assess the damage.
“Bloody Germans,” He heard John grumble, before he was taken by the elbow and led away. “Come on.”
George complied, stumbling along beside his friend as he was led down a set of stairs into the basement. He figured John was taking him to the lavatory there. The door clicked shut behind them and moments later he heard the water come on. George blinked repeatedly, growing annoyed when his burning eyes started to water, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Are you alright?” John sounded soft, but distant.
“It’s the gas. I’m not crying.”
“I know it's the gas, but I’m asking if you’re alright,” He felt a hand on his back, leading him towards the water.
“Brilliant, mate,” George coughed and took hold of the sink, allowing John’s hand at the back of his head to guide him towards the stream of water. He rinsed his eyes for a good ten minutes, until John allowed him back up. George sniffled, the gas still making his nose runny, and lifted his arm to dry his eyes with his sleeve. John grabbed his hands and forced them down.
“Don’t. It’ll still be in your clothes, I reckon,” George nodded and blinked repeatedly, his eyes feeling puffy and strange. John stepped towards him and lifted his own arm up, taking George’s chin one hand and starting to carefully thumb dry his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve on the other. The closeness and John’s hands on his face felt soothing, and how matter how hard he tried to push it way, it was also exciting. It reminded him of their kiss.
In response to John’s caring gesture, he felt a wave of guilt about the last couple of months wash over him. “I’m sorry,” He swallowed, hesitantly lifting his hands and searching for John’s arms.
“Don’t worry on it, mate. Didn’t tear gas yourself, did you?” John chuckled, his breath dancing across George’s face. George shivered and shook his head once.
“No, not about that,” He pulled away a little, forcing his eyes open so he could look at his friend. “About,” He turned his head away and let out a choking cough, annoyed that the tear gas was still affecting him. “About the way things have been, lately.” He hesitatingly took John’s hands, “Between us.”
“Oh,” John’s hands twitched but didn’t pull away. His face went through a series of changes, as if he were trying to decide on a reaction. He eventually fell on sincere, which didn’t happen often, “I am, too.”
George coughed again, turning into his shoulder to keep from doing it right in John’s face, before turning back, “What happened to your bird, then?” John looked confused. “The blond one you took off with a few minutes before,” George clarified.
“Ahhh,” John nodded solemnly. “I, uh… it sounded like it was all going to shit upstairs. Thought you might need me.”
George was overcome with affection for the older boy, briefly forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to be acting queer or strange. He forgot about his normal family, his average upbringing, and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to kiss boys. He threw aside that it was wrong and supposedly disgusting and grabbed John by the back of the neck, drawing him in close enough to kiss.
After a startled pause, John kissed him back fiercely, snaking his arms around George’s waist and crushing their bodies together with a muffled moan against his lips. John pushed him up against the wall, his hands sliding down to grab George’s arse, lifting him slightly so he could grind against him with feverish intensity. George let out an appreciative moan and inhaled sharply before succumbing to a fit of coughs, his chest still tight from the tear gas. John patiently waited for him to catch his breath again, slowing his hips just slightly and nuzzling into the younger mans neck.
“You know,” He picked up the pace again, his hips moving in circles against the young guitarist. George's hips twitched and he let out an aroused whimper, which dissolved into a moan as John carried on steadily. “You taste like whiskey and coke.” He captured him in another kiss, tongue exploring excitedly before he pulled back and looked at him. George wondered how those eyes staring him down could have ever made him feel anything but fucking amazing. “It’s still bloody brilliant.”
-
Not the best ending, but I figure its still open for a follow up chapter or two if I'm so inclined later.