Savoy Truffle (Chapter 7) - George / Eric Clapton
Title: Savoy Truffle (Part 7)
Author: Cutothechase
Pairing: George / Eric Clapton, Eric Clapton/Pattie Boyd, George/Pattie (implied)
Warning: Het, hot guitar!sex
Rating: R again ;D ( ^^)
Disclaimer: I WISH I owned the Beatles and/or Eric Clapton, but sadly I don't even think that's possible. This is a work of complete fiction that my insane insomniac mind thought up a few weeks ago.
Timeframe: 1978, but mainly a flashback to 1972 in this chapter
Wordcount: 1490 (for Chapter 7 - shit, sorry for the length :S)
Summary:
Overall:George is tired of John and Paul neglecting his song ideas and wants to get his friend Eric Clapton to help him record his latest song, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." But it begins to get a bit more involved than that, and the consequences change their lives forever.
This chapter: is freaking long. XD And be prepared for some guitar talk, suspence, and (yes) guitar!sex. Enjoy
Chapter 7
Eric stroked her long blonde hair, which had fallen loose from the messy bun, trying to console himself as well as Pattie.
He closed his eyes and took deep, quivering breaths, resting his chin gently on top of her head to keep it from wobbling.
Should he tell her? He could remember that day as if it were yesterday, but he wished he couldn’t remember it at all.
**** 6 Years Earlier ****
It was a cool spring day of 1972 and the enormous grounds of Friar Park were being lightly misted with rain, making the lawn glow an even brighter green.
“It’s beautiful out there,” George noted quietly, gazing out the window of the spare bedroom. “But I s’pose it’s even more beautiful in here.”
He stopped admiring his beloved property and now turned his gaze to the sultry Clapton sitting on the bed, his wavy angled hair shrouding his eyes as he played a slow, smooth blues rhythm on his guitar.
How they migrated to the bedroom was anybody’s guess. They often spent days together wandering aimlessly around the massive house, exchanging their guitars for the new ones they found in each room.
The blues riff was slowly luring George away from the window and Eric tried to suppress an arrogant smirk as he watched him out of the corner of his eye.
George finally came to a halt in front of Eric. “Gorgeous,” he breathed.
“What?” Eric stopped playing, looking up at George uneasily.
George nodded at the guitar. “She’s a beauty, that one.”
Eric grinned, picking up the piece where he left off. “Yeah…”
George took another step forward. “Funny,” he said, “I don’t really remember ’er.”
“You don’t even know all your bloody guitars?!” Eric asked incredulously.
“Yeah, well, don’t you?” George asked embarrassedly.
Eric gave a short dark laugh. “I know all of mine. I probably know yours better than you do yourself.” Eric sounded angry, as if George was committing a felony.
George suspected that he wasn’t quite on the same page as Eric, but continued anyways. “Aye, but that’s nothing to brag about.”
“Isn’t it though?” Eric ceased his playing again and held the guitar flat on his lap, gazing at it lovingly. “A guitar,” he said passionately, “is like a woman. No, it’s better than a woman. It’ll steal your money initially but then it won’t take anything from you. It’ll never talk back to you. It will never break your heart…”
He held the guitar upright for George to see and continued. “A guitar is your best friend and your worst enemy. And if you don’t know who your friends or enemies are, or who the love of your life is, then you’re doomed, man.” Eric looked at him with meaning. “You gotta know your guitars. I mean, REALLY know. Know who they are, where they come from, what their dreams are, what they’re born to do, what they like to play…”
He closed his eyes and went off into a different blues riff, a little faster and heavier this time.
George stood silently, watching Eric’s fingers work the neck.
“1966 Gibson ES 175D. Bought it in a small guitar shop just south of London about three years ago. Only 979 pounds.”
Eric looked up at him, obviously impressed.
“It likes to… play the blues? No, I know. It likes you playing it. But I don’t know a guitar who wouldn’t.”
A smile played at Clapton’s lips as he let the riff progress a bit higher.
“It’s funny though. I know everything about this guitar. But I just don’t remember ever hearing it before.”
“Maybe you haven’t.” Clapton looked up at him through his bangs. “Maybe you’ve played it before, maybe you haven’t. But maybe you’ve never actually heard what it really has to say.”
It took a while for George to absorb this. It seemed like Eric could only divulge his deepest thoughts when his fingers we were caressing guitar strings.
“So what does it have to say?” George asked, looking into Eric’s brown eyes. “I’m listening.”
Clapton’s face scrunched in concentration as he stared at the guitar, waiting for it to speak to him.
A long high wail suddenly interrupted the blues riff he had been playing. The guitar was moaning in distress, a melancholy tune of loneliness and neglect filling the air.
After one particularly devastating wail from the guitar, George dropped to his knees, holding his head in his hands.
His vision blurred as looked up at Eric, still sitting on the bed, wondering what kind of cruel joke he was playing on him. But Eric was still focused on the guitar, and had drowned out all his surroundings.
The noises were terribly devastating, and George didn’t know how much more he could take.
Suddenly, he had an idea. George reached over and grabbed the white Stratocaster lying on the ground a few feet away. He breathed deeply and, imitating what he’d seen Eric do a few moments ago, he gazed deeply at it.
After a few seconds of deep concentration, he fingers found their way to a fret and it wailed in perfect harmony with the other guitar.
Minutes passed seeming like hours, but the wails, sighs and long-held notes of the two guitars all blended into a mesh of sound. Eventually, both guitarists came to, noticing the desperate symphony was turning around into romantic phrases of hope and love.
George ended his solo and carefully set down the Strat, staring at it in awe, then he gazed up at Clapton, who gave him a quick glance back.
Eric’s solo was getting softer, slower, and more passionate with each note he played .
“How do you do that?” George whispered breathlessly.
Clapton glanced at him again and simply shrugged.
George inched closer, not wanting to miss a move Clapton made.
The solo was getting increasingly higher in pitch, the strings bending in insistent whines that replaced relentless pleas.
Whines soon turned into the classic ‘woman sounds’ that Eric Clapton was so well known for. These moans were the cause of Eric’s great epithet, God. Those moans and everything else that came out when the man touched his finger to a guitar.
The heavy moans and sighs reverberated off the walls and Eric leaned his head back, his eyes closed, his face surrendering to nothingness. The classic Clapton look, the famous expression that George had seen growing on his face that first night that he spent with him…
George somehow found himself getting strangely turned on by the mixture of the guitar’s sounds and Eric’s expression.
Now kneeling in front of the bed, he smoothly placed his hands on Eric’s knees, causing the other man’s eyebrows to arch up in surprise, yet the rest of his body was still in a music-induced coma.
His hands slid slowly up Eric’s legs and he leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on the guitar’s body.
Without stopping the riff, Eric carefully lied back, making room for George while his eyes remained closed in ecstasy.
George moved to Eric’s right on the bed so as to avoid interfering with the guitar neck.
But Eric’s neck was another matter. George’s lips flew everywhere they could reach and Clapton didn’t know how much longer he could keep his hands steady on the guitar, which was screeching its approval from somewhere vaguely just above his crotch.
Eric groaned as the guitar was moved a bit higher on his chest so George could work below it.
The buttons at the bottom of his shirt were undone and George hands massaged his stomach.
The guitar screamed more incessantly as his hands ventured lower.
George’s eyebrows raised in surprise as his fingers reached the top of Clapton’s jeans.
“Jesus, Eric. Do you always get this hard when you play?” he asked with a wide grin. The other man’s eyes flickered open embarrassedly in response. “Well I guess I would be too if I was a bloody guitar god. No wonder you wear your guitar so low…”
They both chuckled as George undid Clapton’s fly. “Where’d the music go?” George asked scornfully.
Eric began to protest, but he liked George’s game too much to want to stop now. Another wail sprang into the air, sending a wave of ecstasy through George, his hips bucking into Eric’s legs unexpectedly.
“That’s…better…” he managed to gasp, trying to recover.
They stared motionlessly at each other. The riff died into a full silence.
Then suddenly the guitar was thrown onto the floor, and George scrambled to tear every piece of clothing off of its player.
Pattie heard a clang sound from somewhere downstairs. It almost sounded like a guitar being thrown against a wall, but she didn’t think much of it. It was probably just George experimenting…
“Mmmf! Oh GOD, yeah!”
Hmm.Yes. Experimenting indeed, she thought, dropping the bags of food in her hand and racing down the steps.