'Queer' - Beatlesslash - G/J - R
Queer
George was scared. He was trying hard not to be. He kept his eyes shut and thought about his room up in the Bambi Kino, about the argument he’d had with John that morning, about Paul and his stupid Gene Vincent impression. He was scared and ashamed. It wasn’t like he was a virgin, after all. But this was different, this was new. This was a man, not some bird off the Reeperbahn; it wasn’t soft and giggling and pretending to let him take the lead. It was hard and cold and bricks digging into his back through his leather jacket. It was hands pinning him against the wall and although he knew it was all his own fault - he had wanted it, asked for it - it was terrifying and all too fast.
It wasn’t, he reasoned desperately, as if these were the hands of a complete stranger, either. This was one of Klaus’ friends who had come along to the Kaiserkeller a few times and hung around with them afterwards. Prellies and German beer probably didn’t make him the best judge of character, but George had been flattered and excited by the tall, dark-haired boy’s attention, which hadn’t seemed to leave him all night. He wouldn’t have done anything about it, wouldn’t ever have dreamed of it. But he’d looked round and John had been offering to show some leggy blonde tart round the bunks in the Kino, and George had suddenly found himself nodding, being led outside. And now he was in a dingy alley with Klaus’ nameless, dark-haired friend, pressed up against a wall and discovering that the rasp of stubble against his throat wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation.
George felt fingers flick open the top button of his jeans and brush the skin beneath his navel. He let out the breath he had been holding and clenched his eyes shut, waiting for what he knew came next.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
George jumped and twisted his head to see John standing in the doorway, the older boy’s eyes glinting dangerously in the glow of his cigarette. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he repeated, “you bent fucking shit.”
He’s talking to me, George thought desperately, shutting his eyes and waiting for John to break his nose. He’s talking to me, I’m out of the group, he hates me.
Instead there was a crack and a howl of pain from Klaus’ friend. George opened his eyes to see John, knuckles bruised and bleeding, standing over the cowering German boy.
”Fucking queer.” John delivered a swift kick in the ribs and the boy doubled up.
“John!” John didn’t appear to hear, so George grabbed him, pulling him away. “John, for fuck’s sake, get off him.”
“Lay a fucking finger on him again an’ I’ll cripple yer,” John spat at the boy as he scrambled away. John watched him go, rubbing his knuckles angrily. George realised he was still gripping John’s arm and let go. His jeans were undone and the top three buttons of his shirt were open. John was looking at him.
“Did he hurt you, Georgie-boy?”
“No,” George replied shortly. “And I don’t need you to look after me, you know,” he added, blushing angrily. “I’m not a kid; I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, an’ it looked like it,” John retorted, sneering now. George said nothing and started to button up his shirt. John stopped, halfway through crushing the fag end under his boot. “Eh, you’re not serious are you, Georgie?”
“Fuck off, John. And don’t call me that.” John was looking at him again, and George was steadfastly ignoring him, buttoning his jeans with as much dignity as he could manage.
“Ah, Georgie’s queer.” John grinned maliciously.
“Fuck off, John. I’m not.”
“‘Fuck off, John. I’m not.’” John mimicked. “Looked pretty fucking queer to me.”
“An’ you’d know, wouldn’t you, John?” George snapped, instantly wishing he hadn’t.
John’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you, Harrison.”
“No, John, fuck you, with all yer fucking trannies… Everyone knows. Fuck you.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck off, I’m going inside.” George pushed past, heading for the door, but John caught him and slammed him against the wall. John’s eyes were burning, feverish and it was clear he was still flying on prellies and whatever else he’d ingested, and George could feel his breath as he leaned closer, leering.
“Wanted to know what it’s like to fuck a man, didn’t you, Georgie?” John sneered, his face inches away and his hands pinning George to the wall. “How it feels to be fucked by a man.”
No, George started to say, but couldn’t because John was pressing him back against the wall and could surely feel how much he’d be lying.
With a sudden, sharp crack George’s head hit the wall and John was kissing him. Except it wasn’t quite a kiss, just lips painfully hard on lips, until it suddenly became John’s tongue in his mouth and John’s hands in his hair. Then it was definitely a kiss. And John was pressing him further and further into the wall, and he couldn’t move, and George was absolutely sure he moaned helplessly into John’s mouth. John ripped his mouth away and they stood panting. George stared at him, eyes wide.
“You're my little fucking queer, if you're anybody's,” John hissed. Before George could reply he sprang backwards, as though burned, and stalked away. He went inside without looking back.
George sagged against the wall and sank down to sit on the damp cobbles, resting his head against the bricks behind him. Fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette he realised he’d given his last one to John earlier that night before they went on. He rubbed his eyes awkwardly. Something wet and cold hit the back of his hand and he realised it had started to rain.