Evasion Part 3
Title: Evasion Part 3 (of 3)
Author: quietprofanity
Fandom: The Beatles
Pairings: Brian/George, John/Brian, Paul/George
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It does not represent true events and no libel or defamation is intended.
Warnings: RPS. Explicit m/m sex. 1960s homophobia.
Summary: After hearing the truth about Brian, George becomes curious about things he hadn’t before. Meanwhile, John has been acting rather strange.
Author’s Note: I’ve never been to Abbey Road, so there may be some or many inaccuracies with the layout. Hope nobody minds. Also, all the best to Sandoz_iscariot for her support and letting me write some of this at her house.
~*~*~
“Right. We need to talk.”
George looked up from the sheet of lyrics in his hand - a Motown song he’d grown fond of some time ago and planned to sing on the album - and took the cigarette out of his mouth. John stared down at him, his leather cap in his hand. They were ending their session tonight, and Paul, Ringo and the others had just left the room, meaning he was alone with John.
George took a deep breath. He’d been bracing for this ever since he’d come in this morning, had tried to assure himself he’d done nothing wrong, and could defend himself to John if forced. “All right then. What do we need to talk about?”
John narrowed his eyes at George. “Meet me here early tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” George asked. He hadn’t expected this, and he felt somewhat offended. “Why do we have to talk tomorrow? Why can’t we talk now?”
“Look, just fucking come in tomorrow! Why do I have to …” John stopped. He took a deep, frustrated breath, and George took a petty pleasure in seeing John ashamed of his outburst. “I want us to talk alone. With nobody else.”
“We could do that at the flat,” George said.
“No, Ringo might be there,” John said. “I want it to just be us.”
“There’s more people here than at the flat.”
John shook his head. “Six o’clock in the morning. Nobody will be here.”
“Since when do you get up that early?”
“Just come, all right.”
George sighed. “Fine.”
John nodded. He put on his cap, walked toward the door. “I’ll sock you if you don’t.”
George played absently with the music sheets as the door closed. He wasn’t sure if John wouldn’t sock him anyway if he did show up, but George figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Fuck him, George thought to himself, unfazed by the empty threat. John could fume all he wanted. It wouldn’t take away last night. It wouldn’t ruin anything good that had happened. George smiled to himself. Even though it was wrong, even though it felt to some extent like a betrayal of Brian, part of him felt like he had won.
~*~*~
The light was dim when George arrived at Abbey Road. The clouds that had shrouded the sky on his walk through Regent’s Park broke into rain the previous night, but while the rain had abated the fog had not, had covered everything in a cool, gray haze.
The wet didn’t bother George, but it made him want to go back to the flat and crawl into bed. The urge to sleep tugged on his eyelids, made him want to curl up against the cold. He’d drank a large cup of coffee before he’d left, but it hadn’t done much, had just created a jittery core underneath the sleepiness.
On the bright side, his sleepiness made it easier not to dwell on what he would say to John.
The front doors felt heavier than normal as George opened them, and when they shut behind him, everything seemed a lot quieter. Even when the Beatles stayed in the studio late, usually some engineers stuck around but this morning the building was eerily silent. The sound of his shoes hitting the floor seemed too loud, like an unwelcome intrusion on the quiet.
George reached their recording studio, reached out to open the doors, then stopped.
“Shit,” he whispered, and the muffled sounds behind the door seemed to echo his suspicion.
The three of them - John, Paul and himself - had lived in close quarters, had lived with very little privacy, for years. In that time, George had developed almost a sixth sense about knowing when one of the others was … well, doing something one should do in private in a space that was not.
George’s breath caught in his throat. His face felt hot with anger and shame. He felt like running away.
Instead he raced to the second floor.
George entered the sound recording booth from the back way. He peered over the audio console, looking through the glass and down into the recording area below, knowing what he would see.
John had Brian sprawled out on his back on the brown-paneled floor of the studio. They were already naked; the only thing John wore was his glasses. John crouched over Brian, one hand wrapped in his hair and the other around his shoulders, Brian’s legs hitched up near his hips. John was kissing him, too - wet, sloppy kisses with his mouth open and his tongue out, kisses that Brian returned just as eagerly.
John raised his head, and for a moment George wondered if John could see him. Then John reached over and grabbed onto a microphone lying on the floor.
The sound of their breathing filled the recording booth.
“Oh,” George growled, “You son of a-”
“Yeah,” John moaned over the speakers, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You like that, you fucking queer.”
“John …” Brian whispered, the word nearly drowned out in his rhythmic grunts of pleasure.
“Tell me. Tell me how much you like it,” John whispered. “Tell me how much you like being with a real man.”
At least twenty insults were running through George’s head. He looked out into the studio again. John had Brian pinned to the ground by his hair. Brian looked up at him desperately, his cock firm against his stomach.
“John …” Brian begged.
“Say it. Say it or I’ll stop.”
Brian moaned in a way that sent a chill up George’s spine. In one way, the sound felt far too familiar, but in another …
“I like it,” Brian said.
“No,” John gripped onto Brian’s hair again, making him wince in pain. “Say it the right way. Say it the way I like it, you queer.”
Brian exhaled, “I like it. I like being fucked by a real man. Do it again. Please John, do it again.”
What the fuck? George fumed. He knew Brian had sex with John. He knew Brian would continue to have sex with other men. Why was this necessary? What the hell did this prove to him?
I should leave, he thought. There was no reason to watch this. And yet …
John thrust against Brian again, his hands splayed out on Brian’s chest, his muscles tense as he moved. With every thrust a moan echoed throughout the room.
This doesn’t upset me, George told himself. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it as the sounds of sex filled his ears.
George continued to watch as he smoked. John put the whole of his body into fucking Brian, moving his hips and his body in one arcing, fluid motion while Brian writhed on the floor, hands gripping for purchase where there wasn’t any. John made his own noises now, loud grunts that echoed his every movement.
George rolled his eyes and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Good God. Next you’ll be doing that stupid pig snort.” He was about to take another puff when Brian moaned again, and then George was too busy reminding his body not to react to do anything.
John let out a cruel, gleeful laugh. “You’re so tight, Eppy. You haven’t done this in a while, have you?”
“John, please,” Brian grasped for him, but John clasped his wrists. “No, John.”
“Mmmm, but you’ll do it for me, won’t you? You’d do anything for my cock, wouldn’t you, you queer? I’m the one you want, aren’t I?”
“Yes, I …” Brian broke off in a moan as John pressed the first two fingers of Brian’s left hand into his mouth. “Oh God, John. Yes.”
George didn’t feel horny anymore. John bent over again to kiss Brian, open-mouthed and messy, and George thought John was trying too hard.
Then, his arms wrapped around Brian and Brian’s arms wrapped around him, John licked along Brian’s cheek. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and lifted up his eyes, staring straight at George.
George’s first instinct was to freeze under John’s gaze, but he fought it. (Even though Brian’s constant moans, constant pleas for John’s attention, messed with his focus.) Holding his cigarette in between two fingers, George leaned over the audio console, resting his palm against it, so his face was an inch away from the glass window of the booth. George pointed to his mouth with his free hand.
“You are stupid,” George said, drawing out every word, hoping John could read his lips. “You are a fucking arsehole.”
John snorted, then waggled his eyebrows. He placed his hands on the top of Brian’s forearms, then dug in his fingers, running them down in a long, hard scratch that made Brian scream.
George felt himself shake. John just stared back at George. As he did, he ran his fingers over the purple bruise on Brian’s shoulder. Possessiveness shot through George, but John licked the bruise, never breaking his glare as he did so.
Then, just when George thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, Brian orgasmed.
John followed a few minutes after, but by that point George had already turned away, a hand clamped over his mouth.
George could hear the rustling sounds of John and Brian moving about below. He glanced back to see Brian starting to stand up, and George ducked beneath the console. He felt like an idiot, hiding like a child, but he didn’t want Brian to see him.
“Are you all right?” Brian said over the microphone.
“No,” George whispered, even though he knew the question wasn’t for him.
“Smashing,” John said, although he was using his stoic voice.
“You seemed distracted,” Brian explained.
John didn’t answer. George heard more movement for a while. He heard John make a sigh of disgust. He wondered what was going on, then Brian spoke again.
“You’d let me hug you at other times, John.”
“Doesn’t mean you need to completely fag it up.”
“John,” Brian said, although this time he didn’t say his name as an eager lover, but as The Beatles’ manager, “I woke up early in the morning just to meet you here.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t want it.”
“John,” Brian warned.
George couldn’t resist anymore. He crawled out and poked his head above the console so he could see out of the window.
They were both fully clothed now. John took off his glasses and approached Brian. He wrapped his arms around Brian, his glasses grasped in one fist. His eyes were closed, and his head rested against Brian’s as if John were willing to stay there forever.
George took the opportunity to slip out the back door. He slammed it behind him, delighting in the bang. Then the image of himself - naked, lubed up and on all fours on top of a table - suddenly popped up in his mind, and he had to stop himself from breaking it.
~*~*~
When George came back to the studio again a few hours later, John was still there. Only this time, Paul and Ringo were there as well. They sat around the studio, Ringo hunched over his drum kit with sticks in hand, Paul writing something down - probably lyrics - on a sheet of paper while he stood over a table, his bass hanging from his shoulders. John stood next to Paul, his own Rickenbacker guitar resting on a nearby chair.
“You all right, George?” Ringo asked.
George ignored him and, while he knew it was petty, immediately went for John’s guitar and picked it up. He forced himself to move at a leisurely pace as he pulled the strap over his head and started playing it. Everyone was looking at him like he was insane as he strummed the opening notes of “Raunchy,” his fingers stumbling slightly over the notes on the unfamiliar guitar.
John glowered as he walked toward George. He reached out for the guitar, but George stepped back, still playing, before John’s hand could close around the neck.
“Put. It. Down,” John growled.
George stopped playing, looked down at the Rickenbacker like he had never seen it before. “Oh, this was yours?” George took the strap from his shoulders and held it out, trying not to smirk when John snatched it out of his hands. “I couldn’t tell because you didn’t piss on it.”
“George!” Paul exclaimed.
“Cute,” John said, ignoring Paul. “The baby can make metaphors. Maybe if we lock him in a room where he can’t take what isn’t his he’ll actually write a song.”
It took all of George’s strength not to punch John in the mouth. Paul approached the both of them like he was coming upon two junkyard dogs, his hands out to calm them. “Look, I don’t know what’s between you two, but …”
“… but it’s clearly not about guitars,” Ringo finished.
“We have an album to record,” Paul said. “At the end of the day, we can work this out.”
“Stay out of this!” George said, his anger at Paul resurfacing with such a vengeance he didn’t feel guilty for yelling. He looked back at John. “And I didn’t take anything. He’s not yours.”
Ringo’s eyes widened. “Um … I think I agree with Paul. This isn’t the best time for …”
“He’s more mine than yours, you little shit,” John shot back. “If he was yours you would have fucked him like a real man and not let him lick your pussy.”
George wanted to say something as cutting and crushing back, but stopped when he saw Paul’s face had turned white. He’d only seen Paul like that once before, and he couldn’t remember what it was about now but he knew it involved a girl.
“George,” Paul said, his voice wavering, “What is he talking about?”
George stared back at him blankly. Paul’s reaction flabbergasted him. He seemed on the verge of becoming very upset. George was ready to think up an excuse or deflect, but then Ringo let out a long sigh.
“Paul,” Ringo said. “You have to know. I knew the moment they walked in the door.”
“They?” Paul asked, and his voice was practically gone now.
Ringo got out from behind his drums and went over to Paul. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Paul removed the bass from about his shoulders, set it on a nearby table as he sat down hard in an empty chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands folded under his chin. “Yeah, I’m … I’m all right.” Although when Ringo tried to touch his shoulder, Paul held up his hand like he was ready to swat Ringo’s away. Then Paul’s face scrunched up, and he looked at George. “God, really?” he asked.
He actually sounded disgusted.
George felt something inside him snap. He crossed his arms and glared at the others. “Yes. Yes, Paul, I did sleep with Brian. Considering everything, I don’t see why you care.”
“How can you say that?” Paul asked, his voice on the edge of a yell.
“Look!” Ringo held up his hands. “I know we’re all upset right now, but I don’t think screaming is going to …”
John laughed - a loud, bitter laugh that struck George as theatric. “I’m not upset, Ringo. What do I have to be upset about? George is the one who can’t handle being rejected.”
George scoffed. “This from the most ridiculously insecure man in the world?”
“Watch your mouth,” John snapped.
“No,” George said, trying to crush the last bit of waver in his voice. “I don’t care what you think. I don’t care what you do or what stupid stunt you pull. At least Brian and I had something. He had to ask before you could even pretend you cared about him.”
George heard the slap before he could process the pain, before he could be aware of the others screaming at John. George groaned as he hit the floor, as John leaped on top of him, a part of George’s shirt in one hand, his other hand poised to slap him again.
George winced at the second blow, but a stupid part of his brain, the part that was too angry to care about self-preservation, demanded he speak again.
“Go on. Go on and beat me up. It worked so well on Bob, didn’t it?”
“You don’t know what I feel!” John screamed, his face an inch from George’s. “None of you know what I feel. You’re all a bunch of queers, a bunch of back-stabbing faggots! None of you understand!”
George felt his head hit the floor as Paul and Ringo pulled John off him. George pushed himself up on his elbows to look at them. John wrenched out of their grip, although he didn’t try to attack George again. Instead, he just stood there, hunched over, his cheeks streaked with tears.
Ringo and Paul stood on either side of George, as if protecting him. Both of them were glaring at John, not an inch of sympathy in their faces. A part of George wanted to use the opportunity to really get back at John, to point out the obvious fact that he was crying over a man while he called them queers. And yet …
“You …,” a sob escaped John’s mouth. “You fucking faggots!”
“John,” Paul pointed at a spot beyond John’s back. “Turn around and shut the fuck up.”
John did, turning so that George could see. Brian stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face red with anger.
They were all silent. Ringo lightly tapped George on the shoulder, then offered him a hand. George took it and let Ringo help pull him to his feet. However, other than that, nobody moved.
“What,” Brian said, drawing out the word, “is going on here?”
“I …”
“Not you, John.”
“But ...”
“No,” Brian said. “Someone else. I want somebody else to tell me what’s happened.”
Paul immediately looked in the other direction. “Nothing.”
Brian looked at George, and George felt his heart stop for a moment. Brian took another quick glance toward John.
“Ringo,” Brian finally said.
Ringo blinked. “Yes?”
“Meet me in the hall,” Brian said, already turned around and walking away.
Ringo followed. As he passed by him, John sneered.
“If you fucking snitch, I swear …”
“Oh piss off,” Ringo said. “I let you touch me cock. I’ll do as I please.” He slammed the door behind him.
A hush fell over the room, making George conscious of the pain that lingered in his jaw. John was staring at the ground, vaguely shaking as he stood off to the side. Paul, on the other hand, had his chin up high, the soft curves of his face hard as steel. It bothered George, and as Paul continued not to move, it bothered him even more.
“Paul?” George asked.
“Don’t talk to me,” Paul said.
George flinched. “I … I didn’t figure you’d be that upset.”
“You figured wrong.” Paul stalked over to the piano and sat down at it. His face was sour as he lifted up the fall.
John raised his head and snorted. “What’s this?” he asked. His tone was mocking, but tired. “Going to write a song? Going to send a secret code about your special love affair?”
“Go away,” Paul said, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. “Both of you.”
“We can’t go anywhere,” George said. “The two of them are outside.”
“Then go into the recording booth. Just leave me alone.” Paul tested two notes, then immediately began to play the solo of “Great Balls of Fire.”
John trod toward the stairs and George - not wanting to but at a loss for anything else to do - followed him up the stairs and into the recording booth. John sat on one of the chairs in the booth as George shut the door.
The soundproofed room shut out Paul’s playing, so the silence between the two of them felt thick and oppressive. John sat staring into space. He wasn’t crying any longer, but he still shook, occasionally sniffled as if struggling to keep back his tears. With Paul furious at them (well, at George) and Brian outside the studio talking to Ringo, George felt like the recording booth had taken on the atmosphere of the headmaster’s office, with John as the bully who had finally been caught.
There was a part of George that wanted to feel triumphant over that, but when he thought about John and Brian on the floor together, he really couldn’t. The full implications of everything John had said, everything Paul had done, hit him, and George felt lost. He buried his face in his hands.
“I can be gentle with him, you know,” John finally said, his voice hoarse.
George raised his head, looked at John. “Excuse me?”
“I said I can be gentle,” John repeated, defiant now. “The first time with him I didn’t even touch him. I just let him toss me off.”
George rolled his eyes. “Oh aye, but I’m sure you were a real man when you did it, weren’t you?”
John scowled and turned away. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “I just meant it isn’t always like that.”
“But that’s what you wanted to show me,” George snapped.
John sighed.
“I don’t know why you’re upset,” George said, leaning back on his chair. “You’re hardly a model of fidelity.”
“What’s mine is mine,” John said. “If another man touched Cynthia I’d rip his fucking legs off.”
“Cynthia’s your wife, though,” George said. “Is Brian obligated to only be with you? Does he?”
John snorted and waved a hand dismissively in George’s direction. “Brian gets his jollies getting down on his knees for a teddy boy or licking some rocker’s bootstrap.”
George blinked, feeling a little sick. God, he’d never heard that before.
“That doesn’t bother you?” George asked incredulously.
“They’re slags,” John said. “They’re no different than the birds we take to bed. It’s one thing to get fucked. It’s another to shit where your mate is eating.”
George narrowed his eyes. “Funny, that.”
John glanced at George, he then stiffened, as if he’d felt a cold draft.
“You never would have acted upon it if I hadn’t done anything,” he said.
“Fuck you!” George stood up and pointed a finger at John. “Don’t act like you did me and Paul a fucking favor.”
“Well,” John said, “It didn’t do any favors for meself, certainly.”
George sighed and sat back down. “Fine for you to acknowledge that now that you’ve made us all miserable.”
John gave no reply to that.
For the next five minutes nothing was said. George thought over all that had happened, and a question he didn’t want answered came into his brain and stuck there until it itched.
“So Brian told you everything,” George said glumly.
“Don’t be angry at him,” John said, more commanding than pleading. “I ask … I forced him to tell me. He was here at half-past four and I had him go over the whole lot.” John shook his head, when he spoke his voice was cracking again. “Every sodding detail. He looked bloody knackered when I asked him. He couldn’t understand why I was so upset. He said a lot of the same things as you, about Cynthia and Patricia and all the other birds. Kept asking me why it mattered when he already lov -”
John swallowed hard. His hand curled into a fist.
“He could have lied. He could have lied and he didn’t. He fucking held me. I shouldn’t have fucking asked.”
George edged back on his chair. He had trouble listening to all this. John looked so sorry, was clearly making himself miserable, and yet the invasion of George’s privacy seemed yet another incident in a string of humiliations.
“He’s too good for the likes of you,” George sneered.
“Well, he’s not your type either,” John said. “You think of him as this sweet thing, this kindly old grownup who’d never hurt you -”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“But he’s not. Your eyes were like to pop out of your head when I told ye about the fags he’s like to fuck. There’s more where that came from. There are far worse things he’s done, worse than anything I showed you this morning. You think you could be enough for him?” John snorted. “Ha!”
“You weren’t there,” George bristled. “You don’t know what went on. I did everything he asked for. I made him happy.”
“He likes being told what to do.” John raised his head, his lips pursed. “Everything you saw I was able to do because he allowed it. That’s why he’s mine, no matter what happened between the two of you.”
George folded his hands and squeezed them together, trying to keep them still.
“Did he know I was watching, then?” he asked, trying to hold his voice steady. “Did he allow you to do that?”
John turned his head back toward the floor, an angry look on his face. He had no answer. George knew he wouldn’t.
George sighed. There was an ache inside him that he didn’t feel should be there, a part of him that knew what he’d had was fleeting but wanted to hold onto it all the same.
Still, he was realizing he had to let it go.
“John?” George asked. “Do you love him?”
John made a dismissive “pffff” noise and rolled his eyes, “I’m not a -”
“Do you love him, John?” George asked, his voice a demand. He could feel his hands shake against each other.
John looked at George, the bravado melted from his face.
“I’m married,” he whispered. “I have a son.”
George just stared at him. John’s eyes turned down to the floor.
“Yes.”
George let out a breath. He hadn’t wanted to hear that word, but was glad John said it, nevertheless. John’s entire body shook. George reached out a hand and placed it on John’s knee.
“Christ,” John moaned. He placed his own hand over George’s. “Christ …”
“Listen. We … we’ve always had an understanding with each other,” George said, borrowing Paul’s words. “You don’t have to tell anyone else. And Paul’s right, we won’t tell anyone either. You say he doesn’t mind when you treat him badly, but you still shouldn’t be so ashamed of him, ashamed of this.”
“What are you going on about?” John asked, his voice ragged.
“You’ve had lots of affairs with women and not had to punch anyone for saying so, or do worse to us,” George said. “If they deserve that courtesy, doesn’t he as well?”
John mindlessly stroked George’s hand. He stared into space.
“All right,” he said.
John’s hand rested on George’s for some time more. George forced a smile. He couldn’t deny how much this hurt, but something about it felt right.
Static filled the room, and the sound startled them enough that George and John broke away from each other.
“Brian wants you, John,” Paul said over the speakers.
John let out a breath. His body was stiff as he got up and exited the room.
George followed after, staring down into the recording studio as he descended the stairs. Paul was still at the piano, although his fingers rested lightly on the keys instead of striking them. Brian looked up at George and John with a stern expression while Ringo, sheepish, stood a foot behind him.
John walked over to Brian. Even from the back, George could see how nervous, how humbled he was. Paul turned away from the piano to look at them.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered.
Brian shook his head. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”
John looked about him. His gaze first rested on Ringo, who nodded, as if to say it was all right, then he turned back, his eyes flashing between George and Paul.
“I’m sorry, mates,” he said.
Paul nodded stiffly.
“Thank you,” George said.
Brian smiled - that sweet, charming smile that made it hard to imagine Brian could ever be angry even if George had seen him so in the past.
“Good,” Brian said, then looked at the others. “I expect we won’t be getting much done today. Paul, you can go home.”
Paul turned back to the piano. “No. I think I’ll hang about here for a bit.”
“All right. Don’t stay too late. Will you meet me outside, John?”
John nodded. As John left the room, George realized Brian was looking at him.
“Are you all right?” Brian asked.
George felt his heart skip a beat. He forced a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Brian stared back at him with something like pity. George bit his lip.
“I’ll be fine,” George said.
Brian stepped forward, his hand outstretched. He cupped his palm under George’s chin and let his thumb run down the line in his cheek.
“I’m sorry, as well,” Brian said.
“You didn’t know,” George said, although speaking felt like trying to see through a fog. He could feel Paul staring at him, and realized how much he had wished Brian would say something else. John was right, and George really couldn’t compete with him.
Brian moved his hand to George’s shoulder, squeezed it.
“You’re a good lad,” Brian said. It sounded like another apology. Then he left as well.
Ringo stood awkwardly near the door as George caught his eye. Ringo pointed behind him.
“I think I’ll be off as well,” Ringo said. “Leave the two of you alone and all that.”
“Really?” George asked. “Are you all right? How do you feel in all this?”
Ringo blinked. He stared at George as if he didn’t understand what he’d been asked. Then he shrugged.
“I’m fine. I was angry for a bit. But, well … what am I to do? What’s done is done and all that. And I was curious about it, anyway. It’s not as if I had it as bad as you lot.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” George asked.
“No. I need some privacy. And I’ve had enough of sharing for now.” Ringo pulled his jacket about his shoulders. “See you later George, Paul.” The door closed with a click behind him as he went.
That left the two of them. Paul closed the fall over the piano keys. George went to his side, hoping to speak with him even though the thought of doing so right after his conversation with John made him ill.
“I’ll get over this, you know,” Paul finally said, although he still wouldn’t look at George. “You didn’t do anything wrong, really. I had just … I don’t know. I’d hoped it was the same for you.”
“I don’t understand,” George said.
Paul sighed. “I’d hoped I was the only man you had wanted to do that with. I suppose it’s not fair. Or some sort of ego thing. But we’ve known each other so long and I never had much interest in any other man.”
George’s froze. He hadn’t expected Paul to say that.
“But you said to John -”
“Look.” Paul stood up, pushing the piano bench back. He stepped out from behind it so he was face-to-face with George. “John’s my best friend. He knows me very well, and that also means he knows the best way to get under my skin. That’s all that was. He was just presenting it in the worst way possible because he wanted to hurt me.”
George rocked on his heels a bit. “But he was right.”
“Well, maybe partly, but …” Paul scratched the back of his head, let out a sigh as he stared at the floor. “Okay, I … I’ve been in love, right? Like with Dot. I really wanted her. I mean, you saw her. She was pretty. When I first met her I wanted to fuck her. I fell in love with her partly because I wanted to fuck her, but that doesn’t mean I was any less in love.”
George faltered as Paul looked up at him expectantly. He shook his head. “That’s different. Lust is a part of love. Not this weird political shit.”
“You’re missing the point, George. A lot of messy, ugly emotions are involved in love. That doesn’t mean it still isn’t love or that love isn’t wonderful.”
The words, the sentiment, seemed very applicable to George at the moment. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“And that bit about you being on my side,” Paul said. “John wasn’t quite right. You’re like my baby brother. I care about you. I wish it all didn’t happen this way.”
Paul stepped closer. George tried to move back, but Paul wrapped his arms around him, held him like he was pinning him, his right hand firm about George’s hips while his left gripped onto George’s hair. And then Paul kissed him.
The kiss was fierce, insistent. Paul practically chewed on George’s lips as his tongue invaded George’s mouth. George didn’t kiss back, couldn’t kiss back. He couldn’t even bring himself to hug Paul, let his arms freeze in the air out of shock. Part of him wanted to respond. He could feel his body stir at Paul’s touch even now. And yet another part of him couldn’t ignore how desperate it all felt.
Paul let him go, his hands lingering on George’s body as he pulled away.
“I hate this distance between us,” Paul said.
George shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Paul. You just surprised me.”
“No. No, it’s more than that. We couldn’t even act as friends at the cinema together. And why couldn’t we talk about this thing between us before then? Why did John have to get involved?”
George shrugged. “I don’t know. I … Well, how do you talk about something like this, anyway?”
“I suppose …”
George said nothing. Paul placed his hands on George’s forearms.
“You know,” he said slowly. “Sometimes there’s a part of me that regrets introducing you to John at all.”
George’s eyes widened. He’d never heard anything like this before. “Why?”
“I wanted to keep you for myself,” Paul said, his grip becoming a little tighter. “I wanted to keep what we had from everyone else. And I keep worrying you’re going to slip away from me, that I’ll lose you entirely. If you want to really know the ugly reason behind why I did it, behind why I want you on my side, that’s why.”
George inhaled sharply. Paul’s hands felt uncomfortably tight. A wave of guilt overtook him.
“I can’t imagine we would ever not be friends,” George said.
“I hope so,” Paul said. “I have to tell you: I love my life as it is now. I don’t want any part of it to end.”
George chuckled, although the sound was weak. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
The corner of Paul’s mouth curled in an attempt at a smile. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you are.”
Paul gave George’s arms another squeeze, then he bobbed his head toward the door. Without a word, George followed, trying to hold onto the quiet satisfaction he felt, and not the undercurrent of defeat.
~*~*~
A few days later, John asked to see George early in the morning again. John had been true to his word, and while nothing could prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard, he had stopped taunting the three of them. Brian still got a bit of it, but George had never expected that to stop and even that had abated.
Nevertheless, George approached Abbey Road that morning with trepidation. The sound of his feet echoing along the corridors reminded him of what had happened last time. So he was surprised when he opened the door to see John just sitting there, two sheets of paper in his hand.
“Right,” John said, and handed George one of the sheets. “I talked it over with Eppy and George Martin. I think we should sing this song together.”
George read the lyrics, which were scribbled down in John’s handwriting. “I know this. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.”
“Right. I want us to try it out together.”
George nodded. “Fine. But won’t we know how it would sound better if we practiced with Paul?”
“I’m not singing this with Paul, George. I want to sing it with you. Just you.”
“Me?” George gripped onto the paper, causing it to make a crinkling noise. “But it’s always you and Paul who do the duets. And this isn’t a duet, anyway. It doesn’t make sense as a duet.”
“I want to sing this with you. I can’t do that for once?” John sprang to his feet. “And we’re not going to sing to each other. I want you on harmony.” He put an arm around George’s shoulders. “Now, I’m going to sing the lyrics, and you come in a little lower. And on the chorus I’m going to sing a line alone, then you repeat me. Then I yell ‘Baby,’ and we come in together. Just like The Miracles did it only it’s just you.”
John’s instructions were simple enough, and after an hour of practice the two of them almost had it where John wanted it. Through all of this, John kept his arm on George’s shoulders, only moving it slightly to wave as Brian walked in the door.
“Hi, Eppy,” John said with a smile. He gripped onto George tighter. “Like what you see? Does it get you hot?”
Brian sighed. “I’m only here this early to meet with Martin,” he said, although he made no move to leave.
John patted George on the shoulder and they began to sing again, Brian watching intently while their voices blended and complimented each other, before splitting off and coming together again. And while a twinge of jealousy still, and always would, tug at George’s heart, when he saw the utter contentment on Brian’s face, he couldn’t be sad at all.
The End.
Author: quietprofanity
Fandom: The Beatles
Pairings: Brian/George, John/Brian, Paul/George
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It does not represent true events and no libel or defamation is intended.
Warnings: RPS. Explicit m/m sex. 1960s homophobia.
Summary: After hearing the truth about Brian, George becomes curious about things he hadn’t before. Meanwhile, John has been acting rather strange.
Author’s Note: I’ve never been to Abbey Road, so there may be some or many inaccuracies with the layout. Hope nobody minds. Also, all the best to Sandoz_iscariot for her support and letting me write some of this at her house.
~*~*~
“Right. We need to talk.”
George looked up from the sheet of lyrics in his hand - a Motown song he’d grown fond of some time ago and planned to sing on the album - and took the cigarette out of his mouth. John stared down at him, his leather cap in his hand. They were ending their session tonight, and Paul, Ringo and the others had just left the room, meaning he was alone with John.
George took a deep breath. He’d been bracing for this ever since he’d come in this morning, had tried to assure himself he’d done nothing wrong, and could defend himself to John if forced. “All right then. What do we need to talk about?”
John narrowed his eyes at George. “Meet me here early tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” George asked. He hadn’t expected this, and he felt somewhat offended. “Why do we have to talk tomorrow? Why can’t we talk now?”
“Look, just fucking come in tomorrow! Why do I have to …” John stopped. He took a deep, frustrated breath, and George took a petty pleasure in seeing John ashamed of his outburst. “I want us to talk alone. With nobody else.”
“We could do that at the flat,” George said.
“No, Ringo might be there,” John said. “I want it to just be us.”
“There’s more people here than at the flat.”
John shook his head. “Six o’clock in the morning. Nobody will be here.”
“Since when do you get up that early?”
“Just come, all right.”
George sighed. “Fine.”
John nodded. He put on his cap, walked toward the door. “I’ll sock you if you don’t.”
George played absently with the music sheets as the door closed. He wasn’t sure if John wouldn’t sock him anyway if he did show up, but George figured he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Fuck him, George thought to himself, unfazed by the empty threat. John could fume all he wanted. It wouldn’t take away last night. It wouldn’t ruin anything good that had happened. George smiled to himself. Even though it was wrong, even though it felt to some extent like a betrayal of Brian, part of him felt like he had won.
~*~*~
The light was dim when George arrived at Abbey Road. The clouds that had shrouded the sky on his walk through Regent’s Park broke into rain the previous night, but while the rain had abated the fog had not, had covered everything in a cool, gray haze.
The wet didn’t bother George, but it made him want to go back to the flat and crawl into bed. The urge to sleep tugged on his eyelids, made him want to curl up against the cold. He’d drank a large cup of coffee before he’d left, but it hadn’t done much, had just created a jittery core underneath the sleepiness.
On the bright side, his sleepiness made it easier not to dwell on what he would say to John.
The front doors felt heavier than normal as George opened them, and when they shut behind him, everything seemed a lot quieter. Even when the Beatles stayed in the studio late, usually some engineers stuck around but this morning the building was eerily silent. The sound of his shoes hitting the floor seemed too loud, like an unwelcome intrusion on the quiet.
George reached their recording studio, reached out to open the doors, then stopped.
“Shit,” he whispered, and the muffled sounds behind the door seemed to echo his suspicion.
The three of them - John, Paul and himself - had lived in close quarters, had lived with very little privacy, for years. In that time, George had developed almost a sixth sense about knowing when one of the others was … well, doing something one should do in private in a space that was not.
George’s breath caught in his throat. His face felt hot with anger and shame. He felt like running away.
Instead he raced to the second floor.
George entered the sound recording booth from the back way. He peered over the audio console, looking through the glass and down into the recording area below, knowing what he would see.
John had Brian sprawled out on his back on the brown-paneled floor of the studio. They were already naked; the only thing John wore was his glasses. John crouched over Brian, one hand wrapped in his hair and the other around his shoulders, Brian’s legs hitched up near his hips. John was kissing him, too - wet, sloppy kisses with his mouth open and his tongue out, kisses that Brian returned just as eagerly.
John raised his head, and for a moment George wondered if John could see him. Then John reached over and grabbed onto a microphone lying on the floor.
The sound of their breathing filled the recording booth.
“Oh,” George growled, “You son of a-”
“Yeah,” John moaned over the speakers, “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You like that, you fucking queer.”
“John …” Brian whispered, the word nearly drowned out in his rhythmic grunts of pleasure.
“Tell me. Tell me how much you like it,” John whispered. “Tell me how much you like being with a real man.”
At least twenty insults were running through George’s head. He looked out into the studio again. John had Brian pinned to the ground by his hair. Brian looked up at him desperately, his cock firm against his stomach.
“John …” Brian begged.
“Say it. Say it or I’ll stop.”
Brian moaned in a way that sent a chill up George’s spine. In one way, the sound felt far too familiar, but in another …
“I like it,” Brian said.
“No,” John gripped onto Brian’s hair again, making him wince in pain. “Say it the right way. Say it the way I like it, you queer.”
Brian exhaled, “I like it. I like being fucked by a real man. Do it again. Please John, do it again.”
What the fuck? George fumed. He knew Brian had sex with John. He knew Brian would continue to have sex with other men. Why was this necessary? What the hell did this prove to him?
I should leave, he thought. There was no reason to watch this. And yet …
John thrust against Brian again, his hands splayed out on Brian’s chest, his muscles tense as he moved. With every thrust a moan echoed throughout the room.
This doesn’t upset me, George told himself. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it as the sounds of sex filled his ears.
George continued to watch as he smoked. John put the whole of his body into fucking Brian, moving his hips and his body in one arcing, fluid motion while Brian writhed on the floor, hands gripping for purchase where there wasn’t any. John made his own noises now, loud grunts that echoed his every movement.
George rolled his eyes and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Good God. Next you’ll be doing that stupid pig snort.” He was about to take another puff when Brian moaned again, and then George was too busy reminding his body not to react to do anything.
John let out a cruel, gleeful laugh. “You’re so tight, Eppy. You haven’t done this in a while, have you?”
“John, please,” Brian grasped for him, but John clasped his wrists. “No, John.”
“Mmmm, but you’ll do it for me, won’t you? You’d do anything for my cock, wouldn’t you, you queer? I’m the one you want, aren’t I?”
“Yes, I …” Brian broke off in a moan as John pressed the first two fingers of Brian’s left hand into his mouth. “Oh God, John. Yes.”
George didn’t feel horny anymore. John bent over again to kiss Brian, open-mouthed and messy, and George thought John was trying too hard.
Then, his arms wrapped around Brian and Brian’s arms wrapped around him, John licked along Brian’s cheek. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and lifted up his eyes, staring straight at George.
George’s first instinct was to freeze under John’s gaze, but he fought it. (Even though Brian’s constant moans, constant pleas for John’s attention, messed with his focus.) Holding his cigarette in between two fingers, George leaned over the audio console, resting his palm against it, so his face was an inch away from the glass window of the booth. George pointed to his mouth with his free hand.
“You are stupid,” George said, drawing out every word, hoping John could read his lips. “You are a fucking arsehole.”
John snorted, then waggled his eyebrows. He placed his hands on the top of Brian’s forearms, then dug in his fingers, running them down in a long, hard scratch that made Brian scream.
George felt himself shake. John just stared back at George. As he did, he ran his fingers over the purple bruise on Brian’s shoulder. Possessiveness shot through George, but John licked the bruise, never breaking his glare as he did so.
Then, just when George thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, Brian orgasmed.
John followed a few minutes after, but by that point George had already turned away, a hand clamped over his mouth.
George could hear the rustling sounds of John and Brian moving about below. He glanced back to see Brian starting to stand up, and George ducked beneath the console. He felt like an idiot, hiding like a child, but he didn’t want Brian to see him.
“Are you all right?” Brian said over the microphone.
“No,” George whispered, even though he knew the question wasn’t for him.
“Smashing,” John said, although he was using his stoic voice.
“You seemed distracted,” Brian explained.
John didn’t answer. George heard more movement for a while. He heard John make a sigh of disgust. He wondered what was going on, then Brian spoke again.
“You’d let me hug you at other times, John.”
“Doesn’t mean you need to completely fag it up.”
“John,” Brian said, although this time he didn’t say his name as an eager lover, but as The Beatles’ manager, “I woke up early in the morning just to meet you here.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t want it.”
“John,” Brian warned.
George couldn’t resist anymore. He crawled out and poked his head above the console so he could see out of the window.
They were both fully clothed now. John took off his glasses and approached Brian. He wrapped his arms around Brian, his glasses grasped in one fist. His eyes were closed, and his head rested against Brian’s as if John were willing to stay there forever.
George took the opportunity to slip out the back door. He slammed it behind him, delighting in the bang. Then the image of himself - naked, lubed up and on all fours on top of a table - suddenly popped up in his mind, and he had to stop himself from breaking it.
~*~*~
When George came back to the studio again a few hours later, John was still there. Only this time, Paul and Ringo were there as well. They sat around the studio, Ringo hunched over his drum kit with sticks in hand, Paul writing something down - probably lyrics - on a sheet of paper while he stood over a table, his bass hanging from his shoulders. John stood next to Paul, his own Rickenbacker guitar resting on a nearby chair.
“You all right, George?” Ringo asked.
George ignored him and, while he knew it was petty, immediately went for John’s guitar and picked it up. He forced himself to move at a leisurely pace as he pulled the strap over his head and started playing it. Everyone was looking at him like he was insane as he strummed the opening notes of “Raunchy,” his fingers stumbling slightly over the notes on the unfamiliar guitar.
John glowered as he walked toward George. He reached out for the guitar, but George stepped back, still playing, before John’s hand could close around the neck.
“Put. It. Down,” John growled.
George stopped playing, looked down at the Rickenbacker like he had never seen it before. “Oh, this was yours?” George took the strap from his shoulders and held it out, trying not to smirk when John snatched it out of his hands. “I couldn’t tell because you didn’t piss on it.”
“George!” Paul exclaimed.
“Cute,” John said, ignoring Paul. “The baby can make metaphors. Maybe if we lock him in a room where he can’t take what isn’t his he’ll actually write a song.”
It took all of George’s strength not to punch John in the mouth. Paul approached the both of them like he was coming upon two junkyard dogs, his hands out to calm them. “Look, I don’t know what’s between you two, but …”
“… but it’s clearly not about guitars,” Ringo finished.
“We have an album to record,” Paul said. “At the end of the day, we can work this out.”
“Stay out of this!” George said, his anger at Paul resurfacing with such a vengeance he didn’t feel guilty for yelling. He looked back at John. “And I didn’t take anything. He’s not yours.”
Ringo’s eyes widened. “Um … I think I agree with Paul. This isn’t the best time for …”
“He’s more mine than yours, you little shit,” John shot back. “If he was yours you would have fucked him like a real man and not let him lick your pussy.”
George wanted to say something as cutting and crushing back, but stopped when he saw Paul’s face had turned white. He’d only seen Paul like that once before, and he couldn’t remember what it was about now but he knew it involved a girl.
“George,” Paul said, his voice wavering, “What is he talking about?”
George stared back at him blankly. Paul’s reaction flabbergasted him. He seemed on the verge of becoming very upset. George was ready to think up an excuse or deflect, but then Ringo let out a long sigh.
“Paul,” Ringo said. “You have to know. I knew the moment they walked in the door.”
“They?” Paul asked, and his voice was practically gone now.
Ringo got out from behind his drums and went over to Paul. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Paul removed the bass from about his shoulders, set it on a nearby table as he sat down hard in an empty chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands folded under his chin. “Yeah, I’m … I’m all right.” Although when Ringo tried to touch his shoulder, Paul held up his hand like he was ready to swat Ringo’s away. Then Paul’s face scrunched up, and he looked at George. “God, really?” he asked.
He actually sounded disgusted.
George felt something inside him snap. He crossed his arms and glared at the others. “Yes. Yes, Paul, I did sleep with Brian. Considering everything, I don’t see why you care.”
“How can you say that?” Paul asked, his voice on the edge of a yell.
“Look!” Ringo held up his hands. “I know we’re all upset right now, but I don’t think screaming is going to …”
John laughed - a loud, bitter laugh that struck George as theatric. “I’m not upset, Ringo. What do I have to be upset about? George is the one who can’t handle being rejected.”
George scoffed. “This from the most ridiculously insecure man in the world?”
“Watch your mouth,” John snapped.
“No,” George said, trying to crush the last bit of waver in his voice. “I don’t care what you think. I don’t care what you do or what stupid stunt you pull. At least Brian and I had something. He had to ask before you could even pretend you cared about him.”
George heard the slap before he could process the pain, before he could be aware of the others screaming at John. George groaned as he hit the floor, as John leaped on top of him, a part of George’s shirt in one hand, his other hand poised to slap him again.
George winced at the second blow, but a stupid part of his brain, the part that was too angry to care about self-preservation, demanded he speak again.
“Go on. Go on and beat me up. It worked so well on Bob, didn’t it?”
“You don’t know what I feel!” John screamed, his face an inch from George’s. “None of you know what I feel. You’re all a bunch of queers, a bunch of back-stabbing faggots! None of you understand!”
George felt his head hit the floor as Paul and Ringo pulled John off him. George pushed himself up on his elbows to look at them. John wrenched out of their grip, although he didn’t try to attack George again. Instead, he just stood there, hunched over, his cheeks streaked with tears.
Ringo and Paul stood on either side of George, as if protecting him. Both of them were glaring at John, not an inch of sympathy in their faces. A part of George wanted to use the opportunity to really get back at John, to point out the obvious fact that he was crying over a man while he called them queers. And yet …
“You …,” a sob escaped John’s mouth. “You fucking faggots!”
“John,” Paul pointed at a spot beyond John’s back. “Turn around and shut the fuck up.”
John did, turning so that George could see. Brian stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face red with anger.
They were all silent. Ringo lightly tapped George on the shoulder, then offered him a hand. George took it and let Ringo help pull him to his feet. However, other than that, nobody moved.
“What,” Brian said, drawing out the word, “is going on here?”
“I …”
“Not you, John.”
“But ...”
“No,” Brian said. “Someone else. I want somebody else to tell me what’s happened.”
Paul immediately looked in the other direction. “Nothing.”
Brian looked at George, and George felt his heart stop for a moment. Brian took another quick glance toward John.
“Ringo,” Brian finally said.
Ringo blinked. “Yes?”
“Meet me in the hall,” Brian said, already turned around and walking away.
Ringo followed. As he passed by him, John sneered.
“If you fucking snitch, I swear …”
“Oh piss off,” Ringo said. “I let you touch me cock. I’ll do as I please.” He slammed the door behind him.
A hush fell over the room, making George conscious of the pain that lingered in his jaw. John was staring at the ground, vaguely shaking as he stood off to the side. Paul, on the other hand, had his chin up high, the soft curves of his face hard as steel. It bothered George, and as Paul continued not to move, it bothered him even more.
“Paul?” George asked.
“Don’t talk to me,” Paul said.
George flinched. “I … I didn’t figure you’d be that upset.”
“You figured wrong.” Paul stalked over to the piano and sat down at it. His face was sour as he lifted up the fall.
John raised his head and snorted. “What’s this?” he asked. His tone was mocking, but tired. “Going to write a song? Going to send a secret code about your special love affair?”
“Go away,” Paul said, his fingers resting lightly on the keys. “Both of you.”
“We can’t go anywhere,” George said. “The two of them are outside.”
“Then go into the recording booth. Just leave me alone.” Paul tested two notes, then immediately began to play the solo of “Great Balls of Fire.”
John trod toward the stairs and George - not wanting to but at a loss for anything else to do - followed him up the stairs and into the recording booth. John sat on one of the chairs in the booth as George shut the door.
The soundproofed room shut out Paul’s playing, so the silence between the two of them felt thick and oppressive. John sat staring into space. He wasn’t crying any longer, but he still shook, occasionally sniffled as if struggling to keep back his tears. With Paul furious at them (well, at George) and Brian outside the studio talking to Ringo, George felt like the recording booth had taken on the atmosphere of the headmaster’s office, with John as the bully who had finally been caught.
There was a part of George that wanted to feel triumphant over that, but when he thought about John and Brian on the floor together, he really couldn’t. The full implications of everything John had said, everything Paul had done, hit him, and George felt lost. He buried his face in his hands.
“I can be gentle with him, you know,” John finally said, his voice hoarse.
George raised his head, looked at John. “Excuse me?”
“I said I can be gentle,” John repeated, defiant now. “The first time with him I didn’t even touch him. I just let him toss me off.”
George rolled his eyes. “Oh aye, but I’m sure you were a real man when you did it, weren’t you?”
John scowled and turned away. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “I just meant it isn’t always like that.”
“But that’s what you wanted to show me,” George snapped.
John sighed.
“I don’t know why you’re upset,” George said, leaning back on his chair. “You’re hardly a model of fidelity.”
“What’s mine is mine,” John said. “If another man touched Cynthia I’d rip his fucking legs off.”
“Cynthia’s your wife, though,” George said. “Is Brian obligated to only be with you? Does he?”
John snorted and waved a hand dismissively in George’s direction. “Brian gets his jollies getting down on his knees for a teddy boy or licking some rocker’s bootstrap.”
George blinked, feeling a little sick. God, he’d never heard that before.
“That doesn’t bother you?” George asked incredulously.
“They’re slags,” John said. “They’re no different than the birds we take to bed. It’s one thing to get fucked. It’s another to shit where your mate is eating.”
George narrowed his eyes. “Funny, that.”
John glanced at George, he then stiffened, as if he’d felt a cold draft.
“You never would have acted upon it if I hadn’t done anything,” he said.
“Fuck you!” George stood up and pointed a finger at John. “Don’t act like you did me and Paul a fucking favor.”
“Well,” John said, “It didn’t do any favors for meself, certainly.”
George sighed and sat back down. “Fine for you to acknowledge that now that you’ve made us all miserable.”
John gave no reply to that.
For the next five minutes nothing was said. George thought over all that had happened, and a question he didn’t want answered came into his brain and stuck there until it itched.
“So Brian told you everything,” George said glumly.
“Don’t be angry at him,” John said, more commanding than pleading. “I ask … I forced him to tell me. He was here at half-past four and I had him go over the whole lot.” John shook his head, when he spoke his voice was cracking again. “Every sodding detail. He looked bloody knackered when I asked him. He couldn’t understand why I was so upset. He said a lot of the same things as you, about Cynthia and Patricia and all the other birds. Kept asking me why it mattered when he already lov -”
John swallowed hard. His hand curled into a fist.
“He could have lied. He could have lied and he didn’t. He fucking held me. I shouldn’t have fucking asked.”
George edged back on his chair. He had trouble listening to all this. John looked so sorry, was clearly making himself miserable, and yet the invasion of George’s privacy seemed yet another incident in a string of humiliations.
“He’s too good for the likes of you,” George sneered.
“Well, he’s not your type either,” John said. “You think of him as this sweet thing, this kindly old grownup who’d never hurt you -”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“But he’s not. Your eyes were like to pop out of your head when I told ye about the fags he’s like to fuck. There’s more where that came from. There are far worse things he’s done, worse than anything I showed you this morning. You think you could be enough for him?” John snorted. “Ha!”
“You weren’t there,” George bristled. “You don’t know what went on. I did everything he asked for. I made him happy.”
“He likes being told what to do.” John raised his head, his lips pursed. “Everything you saw I was able to do because he allowed it. That’s why he’s mine, no matter what happened between the two of you.”
George folded his hands and squeezed them together, trying to keep them still.
“Did he know I was watching, then?” he asked, trying to hold his voice steady. “Did he allow you to do that?”
John turned his head back toward the floor, an angry look on his face. He had no answer. George knew he wouldn’t.
George sighed. There was an ache inside him that he didn’t feel should be there, a part of him that knew what he’d had was fleeting but wanted to hold onto it all the same.
Still, he was realizing he had to let it go.
“John?” George asked. “Do you love him?”
John made a dismissive “pffff” noise and rolled his eyes, “I’m not a -”
“Do you love him, John?” George asked, his voice a demand. He could feel his hands shake against each other.
John looked at George, the bravado melted from his face.
“I’m married,” he whispered. “I have a son.”
George just stared at him. John’s eyes turned down to the floor.
“Yes.”
George let out a breath. He hadn’t wanted to hear that word, but was glad John said it, nevertheless. John’s entire body shook. George reached out a hand and placed it on John’s knee.
“Christ,” John moaned. He placed his own hand over George’s. “Christ …”
“Listen. We … we’ve always had an understanding with each other,” George said, borrowing Paul’s words. “You don’t have to tell anyone else. And Paul’s right, we won’t tell anyone either. You say he doesn’t mind when you treat him badly, but you still shouldn’t be so ashamed of him, ashamed of this.”
“What are you going on about?” John asked, his voice ragged.
“You’ve had lots of affairs with women and not had to punch anyone for saying so, or do worse to us,” George said. “If they deserve that courtesy, doesn’t he as well?”
John mindlessly stroked George’s hand. He stared into space.
“All right,” he said.
John’s hand rested on George’s for some time more. George forced a smile. He couldn’t deny how much this hurt, but something about it felt right.
Static filled the room, and the sound startled them enough that George and John broke away from each other.
“Brian wants you, John,” Paul said over the speakers.
John let out a breath. His body was stiff as he got up and exited the room.
George followed after, staring down into the recording studio as he descended the stairs. Paul was still at the piano, although his fingers rested lightly on the keys instead of striking them. Brian looked up at George and John with a stern expression while Ringo, sheepish, stood a foot behind him.
John walked over to Brian. Even from the back, George could see how nervous, how humbled he was. Paul turned away from the piano to look at them.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered.
Brian shook his head. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”
John looked about him. His gaze first rested on Ringo, who nodded, as if to say it was all right, then he turned back, his eyes flashing between George and Paul.
“I’m sorry, mates,” he said.
Paul nodded stiffly.
“Thank you,” George said.
Brian smiled - that sweet, charming smile that made it hard to imagine Brian could ever be angry even if George had seen him so in the past.
“Good,” Brian said, then looked at the others. “I expect we won’t be getting much done today. Paul, you can go home.”
Paul turned back to the piano. “No. I think I’ll hang about here for a bit.”
“All right. Don’t stay too late. Will you meet me outside, John?”
John nodded. As John left the room, George realized Brian was looking at him.
“Are you all right?” Brian asked.
George felt his heart skip a beat. He forced a smile. “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Brian stared back at him with something like pity. George bit his lip.
“I’ll be fine,” George said.
Brian stepped forward, his hand outstretched. He cupped his palm under George’s chin and let his thumb run down the line in his cheek.
“I’m sorry, as well,” Brian said.
“You didn’t know,” George said, although speaking felt like trying to see through a fog. He could feel Paul staring at him, and realized how much he had wished Brian would say something else. John was right, and George really couldn’t compete with him.
Brian moved his hand to George’s shoulder, squeezed it.
“You’re a good lad,” Brian said. It sounded like another apology. Then he left as well.
Ringo stood awkwardly near the door as George caught his eye. Ringo pointed behind him.
“I think I’ll be off as well,” Ringo said. “Leave the two of you alone and all that.”
“Really?” George asked. “Are you all right? How do you feel in all this?”
Ringo blinked. He stared at George as if he didn’t understand what he’d been asked. Then he shrugged.
“I’m fine. I was angry for a bit. But, well … what am I to do? What’s done is done and all that. And I was curious about it, anyway. It’s not as if I had it as bad as you lot.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” George asked.
“No. I need some privacy. And I’ve had enough of sharing for now.” Ringo pulled his jacket about his shoulders. “See you later George, Paul.” The door closed with a click behind him as he went.
That left the two of them. Paul closed the fall over the piano keys. George went to his side, hoping to speak with him even though the thought of doing so right after his conversation with John made him ill.
“I’ll get over this, you know,” Paul finally said, although he still wouldn’t look at George. “You didn’t do anything wrong, really. I had just … I don’t know. I’d hoped it was the same for you.”
“I don’t understand,” George said.
Paul sighed. “I’d hoped I was the only man you had wanted to do that with. I suppose it’s not fair. Or some sort of ego thing. But we’ve known each other so long and I never had much interest in any other man.”
George’s froze. He hadn’t expected Paul to say that.
“But you said to John -”
“Look.” Paul stood up, pushing the piano bench back. He stepped out from behind it so he was face-to-face with George. “John’s my best friend. He knows me very well, and that also means he knows the best way to get under my skin. That’s all that was. He was just presenting it in the worst way possible because he wanted to hurt me.”
George rocked on his heels a bit. “But he was right.”
“Well, maybe partly, but …” Paul scratched the back of his head, let out a sigh as he stared at the floor. “Okay, I … I’ve been in love, right? Like with Dot. I really wanted her. I mean, you saw her. She was pretty. When I first met her I wanted to fuck her. I fell in love with her partly because I wanted to fuck her, but that doesn’t mean I was any less in love.”
George faltered as Paul looked up at him expectantly. He shook his head. “That’s different. Lust is a part of love. Not this weird political shit.”
“You’re missing the point, George. A lot of messy, ugly emotions are involved in love. That doesn’t mean it still isn’t love or that love isn’t wonderful.”
The words, the sentiment, seemed very applicable to George at the moment. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“And that bit about you being on my side,” Paul said. “John wasn’t quite right. You’re like my baby brother. I care about you. I wish it all didn’t happen this way.”
Paul stepped closer. George tried to move back, but Paul wrapped his arms around him, held him like he was pinning him, his right hand firm about George’s hips while his left gripped onto George’s hair. And then Paul kissed him.
The kiss was fierce, insistent. Paul practically chewed on George’s lips as his tongue invaded George’s mouth. George didn’t kiss back, couldn’t kiss back. He couldn’t even bring himself to hug Paul, let his arms freeze in the air out of shock. Part of him wanted to respond. He could feel his body stir at Paul’s touch even now. And yet another part of him couldn’t ignore how desperate it all felt.
Paul let him go, his hands lingering on George’s body as he pulled away.
“I hate this distance between us,” Paul said.
George shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Paul. You just surprised me.”
“No. No, it’s more than that. We couldn’t even act as friends at the cinema together. And why couldn’t we talk about this thing between us before then? Why did John have to get involved?”
George shrugged. “I don’t know. I … Well, how do you talk about something like this, anyway?”
“I suppose …”
George said nothing. Paul placed his hands on George’s forearms.
“You know,” he said slowly. “Sometimes there’s a part of me that regrets introducing you to John at all.”
George’s eyes widened. He’d never heard anything like this before. “Why?”
“I wanted to keep you for myself,” Paul said, his grip becoming a little tighter. “I wanted to keep what we had from everyone else. And I keep worrying you’re going to slip away from me, that I’ll lose you entirely. If you want to really know the ugly reason behind why I did it, behind why I want you on my side, that’s why.”
George inhaled sharply. Paul’s hands felt uncomfortably tight. A wave of guilt overtook him.
“I can’t imagine we would ever not be friends,” George said.
“I hope so,” Paul said. “I have to tell you: I love my life as it is now. I don’t want any part of it to end.”
George chuckled, although the sound was weak. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
The corner of Paul’s mouth curled in an attempt at a smile. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you are.”
Paul gave George’s arms another squeeze, then he bobbed his head toward the door. Without a word, George followed, trying to hold onto the quiet satisfaction he felt, and not the undercurrent of defeat.
~*~*~
A few days later, John asked to see George early in the morning again. John had been true to his word, and while nothing could prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard, he had stopped taunting the three of them. Brian still got a bit of it, but George had never expected that to stop and even that had abated.
Nevertheless, George approached Abbey Road that morning with trepidation. The sound of his feet echoing along the corridors reminded him of what had happened last time. So he was surprised when he opened the door to see John just sitting there, two sheets of paper in his hand.
“Right,” John said, and handed George one of the sheets. “I talked it over with Eppy and George Martin. I think we should sing this song together.”
George read the lyrics, which were scribbled down in John’s handwriting. “I know this. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.”
“Right. I want us to try it out together.”
George nodded. “Fine. But won’t we know how it would sound better if we practiced with Paul?”
“I’m not singing this with Paul, George. I want to sing it with you. Just you.”
“Me?” George gripped onto the paper, causing it to make a crinkling noise. “But it’s always you and Paul who do the duets. And this isn’t a duet, anyway. It doesn’t make sense as a duet.”
“I want to sing this with you. I can’t do that for once?” John sprang to his feet. “And we’re not going to sing to each other. I want you on harmony.” He put an arm around George’s shoulders. “Now, I’m going to sing the lyrics, and you come in a little lower. And on the chorus I’m going to sing a line alone, then you repeat me. Then I yell ‘Baby,’ and we come in together. Just like The Miracles did it only it’s just you.”
John’s instructions were simple enough, and after an hour of practice the two of them almost had it where John wanted it. Through all of this, John kept his arm on George’s shoulders, only moving it slightly to wave as Brian walked in the door.
“Hi, Eppy,” John said with a smile. He gripped onto George tighter. “Like what you see? Does it get you hot?”
Brian sighed. “I’m only here this early to meet with Martin,” he said, although he made no move to leave.
John patted George on the shoulder and they began to sing again, Brian watching intently while their voices blended and complimented each other, before splitting off and coming together again. And while a twinge of jealousy still, and always would, tug at George’s heart, when he saw the utter contentment on Brian’s face, he couldn’t be sad at all.
The End.