Savoy Truffle (Part 9) - George / Eric Clapton
Title: Savoy Truffle (Chapter 9)
Author: Cutothechase
Pairing: George / Eric Clapton, George/Pattie, Eric/Pattie
Warning: Het
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and crap
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: 1970 still (again, forget about the whole '1972' thing)
Wordcount: 2250 (for Chapter 9 - It's not long, it's George-sized!)
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 a depressing one. But it shapes up nicely for the end, you'll see.
This is the 2nd-to-last chapter! But it's not too late to start reading if you missed some chapters/haven't yet started!
Chapter 9
Eric paced the third floor of Hurtwood Edge for the fiftieth time that day before finally getting the courage to do what his mind told him to do hours ago.
Two days had passed since the incident with George and Pattie, yet he still couldn’t stop torturing himself about what had happened.
The guilt only worsened with each passing minute he spent at his “second home,” which is what he called Hurtwood Edge, his house.
Despite the huge (but lonely) property being the only piece of land he owned, he knew in his heart that Friar Park always felt like his true home. The beautiful gardens that George treasured so much, the mysterious caves, seemingly hundreds of rooms to explore with endless stashes of guitars hidden away in every crevice, the cozy but stylishly-furnished kitchen and living room, the wonderful smell of Indian spices… And then, of course, most importantly, there were the people who lived there.
Damn, I think I’ll go outta my head if I don’t go home soon, Eric’s mind ranted frantically for the millionth time that day.
Reluctantly, he allowed his feet move in the direction they had been dying to go, and he let his fingers swirl an all-too-familiar number into the phone.
His breath caught when someone picked up on the first ring. That someone was just the man he was waiting to talk to for 40 hours.
He took a deep breath. “George? It’s Eric. Yeah, I know.”
George had already commented on how horrible Eric sounded over the phone, but that was nothing compared to how Eric was feeling inside.
“Listen,” Eric interrupted the small talk, “Can I come over? Erm now, if it’s okay? Cheers, mate, see ya in a few.”
He grinned as he hung up and raced out to a car he didn’t usually take to Friar Park, hoping it would bring him better luck. Because he was going to need it.
**************************************
George greeted him light-heartedly at the door when he arrived, almost being more friendly than usual. Eric followed the him to the living room, where they sat comfortably across from each other amid a mass of four guitars.
There was an unusually awkward silence as they stared worriedly at each other.
Then, finally, the ever-attentive George broke the silence. “I’m glad you came over,” he said in a serious tone. “I need to talk to you.”
Eric’s stomach plummeted to somewhere below the floor. As if by instinct, he grabbed the nearest guitar, a powder blue telecaster, and struck a few quiet chords to slow his pulse.
George gave him a strange look, then followed suit, picking up a nice hollow-bodied Gibson and fingering the opening riff for “I Want to Tell You.”
Eric stopped upon recognizing the song, knowing that George was trying to get the point across. He listened to the man’s fingers softly playing the melody, trying desperately to buy some time.
“Eric,” he said finally, his right hand coming to a gradual halt, “We can’t do this anymore.”
An icicle sliced through Eric’s heart; he could feel his very soul being stabbed.
Yet he didn’t let it show on the outside. Except in his eyes.
George up at him hesitantly, briefly meeting his eyes and regretting doing so at once, shifting his gaze quickly to the floor.
Eric’s eyes were the definition of sadness. Their deep brown depths shone with a melancholy loneliness, and they were practically screaming ‘hurt’ in a way that nearly brought George to tears.
But George knew he couldn’t back down now. He wished he could just start over and pretend he had never even said that, but he knew the situation at hand wouldn’t just go away because he wanted it to. It had to be dealt with at some point, and sooner was better than later.
“Does she know?” Eric asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
George hesitated then shook his head, still staring at the floor. “No.” He gave a dark chuckle. “In fact, she’s convinced it was Mo I was with on Friday.”
“Mo?” Eric repeated incredulously. “Maureen Starkey, you mean?” George nodded sadly.
The aura of grave seriousness was then interrupted by them both bursting into giggles.
“Dear little Mo! If only!” Eric said, wiping the tears of laughter and relief from his eyes. “Ahh, poor Pattie,” he laughed.
“What can I say, I have a thing for oblivious girls,” George retorted dryly. “I don’t think she’d ever know…”
“Must be great being ‘The Quiet One’-you’re so quite, even your wife won’t guess you’re really a queer on the inside.” They laughed again. It was all a joke really; they both knew they were straight. But fooling about once in a while couldn’t hurt. Especially when it was this fun… and this hot.
The silence crept in again and Eric’s mind jolted back to the topic of conversation.
“So,” he said solemnly, “what is it then? Why can’t we…?” He broke off, not sure how to finish. ‘…Be friends’ was not enough, but they certainly weren’t lovers… Or were they? He could’ve simply asked, ‘Why can’t we fuck anymore?’ but there was more to it than that.
Eric didn’t know what he really felt about this whole thing, he really wasn’t even sure how he felt about George on the inside. Of course, he loved George with all his heart, but up until now, it was with a kind of love reserved for close friends… But after the incident this week, he wasn’t so sure…
George sighed, and Eric’s insides twisted in sympathy. “I just can’t do it any longer. As much as I’d like to have you come over every day… I just can’t take the chance,” George told him, sighing. Their eyes met in somber understanding. “The other day, we cut it almost too close, Slowhand. Things could’ve easily been so much worse… So much worse! I mean, that day, you just happened to lock the door by chance. Imagine if you hadn’t! She would’ve come strolling in and... Well, that would’ve been the end of me.”
Eric nodded, realizing that he couldn’t deny any of this. “But if she doesn’t know now-”
“I can’t risk it.” George knew it sounded harsh, but it was true. “Look, I truly don’t even care what she thinks. But if she knows, then she’ll tell someone, and then soon the whole world will know that Eric Clapton and George Harrison are ‘sexy gay lovers’ and… you know… I mean, we had enough problems with people saying that about the Beatles. But this is more specific than that, more personal. And I don’t want this to affect our careers, you know?”
It’s not even about Pattie either?! Eric was finding this hard to take. “Yeah, I mean it’s not like you wrote two songs about me. Or I wrote a song about you or anything,” he remarked sarcastically.
“Three, actually,” George corrected coolly. “And…you…you wrote a song about me?” He looked at Eric in wide-eyed amazement. He was obviously interested but Eric was so hurt that he didn’t have the heart to explain.
“Well, I did. But it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it,” Eric muttered darkly.
George looked at him sadly, and he glared back. Sad, dark, hurt eyes met even darker eyes with melancholy apologies written all over them. But they were way past the point of apologies now.
George sighed yet again and leaned over the table in effort to be closer to Eric.
“I wish this could work. I wish everything would be okay. But it can’t be and there’s no way around it. It’s been fun, it really has been. And I’ve learned a lot. But it’s over.”
Eric felt anger rise through his whole body, unrestrained sarcasm taking over his voice.
“Yeah, it’s been bloody ‘fun’ for me too, Georgie. It was just loads of fun staying up endless nights, just going crazy in my own damn house until I could finally get to yours. Fun when I’ve turned dozens of women down because I know I won’t be as satisfied as I am with you. It’s been great, practically getting hard-ons from just your voice alone. And not being able to get rid of that high from being around you; I can’t get away from those feelings of always wanting to be around you, day and night.
But it was worth it, just knowing that I could actually have you, George fucking Harrison, against all odds of all it happening… And knowing I could teach you, learn from you, give you something no one else could, be your best friend... And maybe even love you, too.”
Eric whispered a swear at himself as blinked back tears.
George stared silently at the coffee table, obviously in shock and at a loss for words. For many long moments, which were only seconds in actuality, he simply sat and stared.
Then, without even a glance at Eric, he got up and strode out of the room, the door gently closing behind him.
Tears fell freely down Eric’s cheeks. “God, damnit,” he whispered to them empty room, echoing the words George had said to him so many times before.
This damn room was where this whole mess started. And it seemed likely that it would be where it ended too.
Eric was once again alone, and very literally on his own. Just me and the drugs, just like old times. He picked up the blue telecaster again and striking an angry chord with all feeling he had in him. The chord transformed into a single note, and the note became a riff, played very fast, with distinction.
It was a song of unrequited love, of anger and lust. Of loving somebody with all your heart, but receiving no love in return because their heart belongs to someone else…
His tears now dried, Eric dropped the guitar and went up to the kitchen, somehow knowing that George wouldn’t be there.
He needed to make some tea badly; it didn’t matter if he wasn’t even “home” now. It was between tea or running out and getting some cocaine or pot or SOMETHING, but tea was simply easier, and he didn’t have the energy to do anything else at the moment.
He was so lost in his own franticness that he didn’t realize that somebody was in the kitchen with him for a good five minutes.
A beautiful woman with long blond hair was taking off a boiling kettle of water off the stove. Pattie. Of course.
Eric dragged his eyes away from her, blushing, forgetting for a second that she did not know about him and George.
She looked faintly surprised to see Eric standing in her kitchen, and even more surprised that he seemed to be there of his own accord, without George tagging along at his side. Her gorgeous cornflower blue eyes briefly searched the room for her husband, who was nowhere to be found, so she safely returned her eyes to Eric standing in front of her.
She did not ask about his whereabouts, or about his red eyes, but simply inquired him by raising her perfectly-shaped eyebrows. She then broke into a cute grin, her face becoming even more girlish when the signature gap between her front teeth was exposed.
“Want some tea?” she asked, holding up the kettle of hot water.
Eric looked at her and nodded robotically, as if in a trance.
They sat next to each other at the kitchen table.
The tea seemed to revive his memory, and soon he had fully absorbed what George had said.
It wasn’t even about him…and the break up wasn’t even about Pattie. It was all about George. I, Me, Mine, I, Me, Mine, indeed.
“Do you ever get lonely here?” Eric blurted out randomly.
She searched him with honest eyes. “Yes,” she admitted sincerely, “yes I often do.”
It wasn’t enough for him. “Sometimes it almost seems like George doesn’t even hang around you all that often. Does he even still talk to you?”
Pattie frowned, looking like a little girl pouting over a desired toy. “No, he really doesn’t much anymore. I’m lucky if I hear a word from him all day. You know, I thought that ‘Quiet Beatle’ stuff was all a myth, but now I’m not so sure.”
Eric smirked at her, admiring her shy sense of humor matched beautifully well with the perfect looks any man could ask for in a woman.
“Does he still love you, Pattie?” he asked quietly.
She turned away, offended.
“It’s alright,” he soothed. “That’s not what I’m after anyways. But the truth is…” he steadied his voice, trying to convince himself that what he was doing was right. “The truth is…I’m in love with you.”
Pattie’s mouth fell open slightly¸ and Eric assumed that his part was pretty convincing. “I… I wrote a song for you, too,” he continued, trying to block out the memory of George’s reaction of this same fact, about the very same song.
“Would you like to hear it?”
Pattie gaped at him in horror, but slowly nodded all same, not having a clue what she was about to get into.
He picked up the Gibson (the same that George had been playing in the living room) from where he had laid it down beside the chair and let loose with a song soon to be known as Layla.