Work Text:
AUGUST 1964, USA
“You fancy some shut eye, Paul?”
“Yeah, sounds good, actually.” Paul yawned extra-wide, white teeth bared and gleaming under the low lights.
George did a pretty good job at not rolling his eyes at their stunning overall lack of subtlety. He watched in mostly silence, muttering a quiet goodbye along with Ringo and the rest of their posse as Paul and John made themselves scarce from the private booth in the back of the club to ‘head back and get some sleep’. Sleep my left arse cheek, George could’ve scoffed- but he didn’t.
He’d seen the heated looks they’d been shooting each other from where they’d been squished together in the corner of the large, rounded booth. The excuse given by John for sidling up so to Paul so closely was that there wasn’t enough room for the four Beatles and their entourage to all fit in, especially not with the leggy birds that were advancing on their table at (quite frankly) an alarming rate.
George knew far better- John and Paul just wanted an excuse to curl up together in public. It must’ve appealed to the dirty exhibitionist in John; George remembered the Hamburg days and the steady stream of excuses John came up with to get his cock out, or get them to get their cocks out, or stick his cock in a dirty prozzie in the very same room as literally anyone willing to stay up and watch. George’s skin flushed pink at the memory of losing his own virginity to a slurring, German groupie in a room packed out with his bandmates. Most of them didn’t give much of a toss besides a proud jeer when he finished, content afterwards to turn over and go back to sleep, dreaming of Brigitte Bardot and fish & chips and all the other things they missed so much from back home. John, however, seemed incredibly interested in the whole ordeal and even from under the thick blanket George had covered himself and the bird with to protect the few scraps of dignity they had left, he could feel John’s light-brown eyes burning into him, studying his every move.
John was a dirty pervert. That was nothing new and was hardly a secret to most of the people around them. This development with Paul, however, had spun things in a new, even dirtier direction he certainly hadn’t been expecting. Or- well maybe he had, once or twice. Maybe he’d just hoped it wasn’t true.
First, there had been the whispered rumours about John and Stu, back in Hamburg and even during their brief stint co-inhabiting the scummy bedsit down Gambier Terrace, that they were doing the unspeakable behind everyone’s backs. George had never bought into (what he considered) crack-pot theories, but later, as he got to know John better and their fame rose at rapid speed, forcing them all to cling to one-another for dear life at all times, he did have his own silent reservations. John was always the most curious of them about anything Queer or even vaguely perverse. Plus, there was the holiday with Brian- Paul had been seething about that. At the time, George had just assumed Paul was pissed because John was taking charge, making sure Brian knew he was that he was the boss of The Beatles, but later he’d thought about things from a slightly different angle. Now, seeing John openly flirt with Paul in television interviews and gaze at him fondly whenever he thought that nobody was watching, George supposed he could imagine a rational explanation for Paul’s reaction. John had been equally furious when Stu announced he was leaving the band to be with Astrid and live in Germany forever. Similarly, he was absolutely devastated when Stu’s brain stopped working and he died instantaneously, curled into himself on the ground after a bout of strange and nasty headaches. On the contrary, Paul hadn’t been quite so worked up about it. He remained respectful, of course- Paul practically bled politeness- but George had wondered at the time if he was secretly a little bit pleased. He and Stu had never got on- they’d even physically fought in Hamburg, and Paul never scrapped with anybody. They were always bickering and taking swipes at each other but one night it had all come to a frightening, rowdy head on stage. George had actually found the whole ordeal quite funny at the time, but John was furious and, even more strangely, hurt. He remembered it vividly; John looking towards the two scrapping boys on the ground, head darting back and forth between them as if he was watching a tennis match where he’d bet on both players.
“Night lads.” Ringo nodded with a drunken slur, raising a glass to the two as they batted their fucking eyelashes at each other before turning and making their own goodbyes to the group. Paul caught eyes with George and shot him a small, pleased smile. If that was supposed to be reassuring, George thought with his own forced smile in response, it fucking wasn’t.
“Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.” He grumbled over the rim of his glass, strong smell of whiskey and coke tickling at his nose. Fucking hell, clubs made the drinks extra dirty when you were famous, despite them being free! George supposed they were just itching for a scandal, what with the beloved John Winston Lennon being known as such a volatile drunk. They’d all been sure of that after the farce of Paul’s twenty-first birthday party.
“Don’t worry.” John smirked, but his eyes were fixed on Paul. “We’ll keep them out somehow.”
George did his best not to scowl darkly as Paul giggled and blushed like a fucking bird, allowing John to just lead him out the booth and take him home. He leant back against the supple leather of his seat and looked at the smiling, drunken faces around them. None of them seemed to care about John and Paul’s blatant flirting at all- that or they hadn’t even noticed- which to George seemed absurd. They were just so flippin’ obvious, to him.
His mam’s sister had always told him he could see things in others that nobody else did.
“He’s got the sight, that one” he’d once heard her say. “Those dark eyes. See into your soul, they will.”
Everyone else had just thought his lovely auntie was a bit batty, especially after her husband died and she was left all alone, but George had always privately felt that he did understand what it was that she meant. He understood people- sometimes he really, genuinely thought he could feel the way they did, think the way they thought, just by looking at someone a second too long. Paul had always told him off for staring when they were kids, saying it would put people off. Paul was so obsessed with his image and what other people thought, and until he met John, George couldn’t think of a single reason why he would.
But then he did meet John. And he had to give it to Paul. The kid was fucking electric.
It pissed him off, the lengths he would go to just to impress John, or spark conversation with him or make him laugh. George wasn’t really sure -even now- if he actually liked John at all, considering he was such a prick most of the time, but for some reason he was addicted to making him smile, or raise his sparse brows and make that surprised little oh sound whenever George said something clever or helped him with a lyric or played something wicked on his guitar. Privately, George had been working on his own written songs intended for their next album and had showed Paul and Ringo a few- but was apprehensive to even let John catch wind of the idea before they were absolutely perfect. He didn’t want John to think him soft, or stupid, or maybe just not good enough. And this idea in itself was bloody ludicrous, because George knew he was as good- if not better at making music than John and Paul. Lennon and flippin’ McCartney- he hated how impressive they were without ever really trying. However, past Lennon-McCartney, they were still his mates- John and Paul- and with this new development in their relationship, George genuinely was quite worried for them.
But, before he could go around accusing anyone of anything in ways to fix this tricky problem, he’d need some kind of proof. Solid, concrete proof- but he didn’t really fancy walking in on Paul playing John’s mouth organ. He’d have to think of something less direct, less obvious. Across the booth, Brian smiled at him.
George grinned back, sharp teeth sparkling. Brian.
He made the bloke on his left (some American hanger on he hardly knew nor cared for) switch seats with him so he could be beside Brian, moving slightly away from the rest of their small group. Not that the others seemed to care, all far too busy staring at the birds twirling only a few feet away. Ringo had his eye on one in particular, despite the fact he’d promised Mo he’d at least try and stay faithful this time around when they left for the tour. So far, he’d broken that promise five times over, but it wasn’t George’s business to tell her. At least it wasn’t as bad as what John and Paul were (maybe) doing to Jane and Cynthia.
“Having a good night George?” Brian asked, a half-drunk, girlish smirk lighting up his face along with those stupid rosy cheeks, extra pink thanks to the whiskey. Brian didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was a queer anymore, and George never quite knew whether to be impressed or offended by his confidence. When they’d first met Brian he’d been coy enough, but after spending more than a few hours in his company it had become very clear where his interests lied with that limp wrist and simpering, faux-posh accent. However, Brian had the remarkable talent for switching it off when need be, and George’s not-so-private quandary about whether or not he could even be trusted with the business side of things was quickly diminished when, under Brian’s fearless leadership, they’d race from strength to strength up the charts at twice the rate they had working with Alan Williams. Brian may have been a queer, and a jew, but he was bloody clever, and resilient, and over the last few years he’d really become a dear friend to them all. George supposed, being queer, Brian was his safest bet (aside from Ringo) in breeching the incredibly precarious issue of John and Paul fooling around in dark hotel rooms when they all had their backs turned.
“S’alright.” He replied, non-committal, tipping his drink in greeting. Suddenly, under Brian’s squinted gaze, he felt uncharacteristically nervous. Perhaps Brian would think it ridiculous, even the notion of John and Paul getting their rocks off with each other. They were the least queer blokes in the country- if you believed what the papers said- and for the most of it, George did. He’d seen the birds coming to and from their suites as they jetted around the world, playing music for the screeching masses, and they certainly weren’t all there for him, nor Ringo. His palms sweated, so he knocked back his drink as quickly as possible to steady his nerves and then sidled up a little closer to Brian, shutting them away from the others that surrounded them. This conversation had to be private.
“You okay, George?” Brian, ever the fucking mother, asked him, brow furrowing with worry and clarity slowly returning to his lovely light-brown eyes. “You’re very quiet.”
George could’ve laughed at that. But I’m the ‘quiet beatle’! he almost said. According to the rest of the world, he didn’t bother opening his mouth unless directed to by the two-headed monster that was Lennon-McCartney. Things in the press were so far from the truth sometimes, it was laughable. George may have been quiet in public, but behind closed doors, he could certainly hold his own. He was a Liverpool-raised lad, after all.
“I’ve been thinking.” He said with a sigh, eyes still cast across the club, lingering on the door John and Paul had slipped out of a few minutes previous. “Have you… uh…” he trailed off, trying to wrack his brain for a way to broach the subject as sensitively as possible, but when he finally turned to look Brian in the eye, he saw that his stuttering, dilly-dallying was met with nothing but a blank stare. He could be indirect about it- but what would be the point? The concept he was delivering was so impossibly absurd, George couldn’t think of any way to approach it other than being as direct as possible. “…Paul and John.” He blurted out, and if it wasn’t for the way he choked on his own drink slightly, Brian’s bright-red all-over flush was giveaway enough to the fact that he knew exactly what George was getting at. “-they’re… well. They shouldn’t be doing it, should they?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, at all, George.”
George rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Brian, for God’s sake. You know exactly what I’m getting at, you just don’t want to say so!” He slumped back against the booth, both frustrated and disappointed that his wildest suspicions were almost certainly true. He’d been hoping Brian would throw back his head and laugh at even the idea- or better, have a go at him even for suggesting such a ghastly thing.
But that wasn’t what had happened, not at all. Feeling antsy, George pulled a cigarette out from his jacket and lit it, offering Brian one. Brian shook his head, and looked down at the table, turning his glass around a few times in his hand.
“This is all I’m going to say on the matter.” He began after a long, tense pause, finally lifting his gaze to meet George’s eyes. “I can’t say for sure what John or Paul may be doing or not doing, together or apart. I’d given up trying to keep tabs on either of them a long time ago.” he huffed a sad, fond laugh, and George’s heart doubled speed in his chest. Only this time, it wasn’t from nerves. George wasn’t even sure if it was from him. The swelling love that blossomed in his chest for the sharp-tongued, song-writing conspirators certainly wasn’t just his own.
He could feel Brian’s adoration, burning in his chest. The true, genuine care he had for the four of them was staggeringly overwhelming, and it caught George of guard for a few seconds, making him choke on his cigarette slightly. It was almost frightening, how much Brian loved them. George wasn’t sure how they’d survive the day he finally packed up and turned his back on them all.
“…all I can say is this,” he finally continued. “We love John and Paul very much, don’t we?”
George nodded. “Of course.” He said, without a second of hesitation.
“We’re a family. Families stick together.” Looking a little more relaxed, satisfied that he had George’s solid attention and (at least partly) his support, Brian reached forwards for the cigarette box and took what had been previously offered to him, nodding for George to flick the flame on the zippo lighter he’d been playing with. “If anything… unsavoury, lets say, was going on then… well… that would be Paul and John’s business, wouldn’t it? Not ours, that’s for sure.”
“That’s all well and good, Bri,” George scoffed, unsatisfied with his coy answer. “-but I’d certainly think it is our business if whatever they… are or aren’t doing could potentially get them in trouble- which fucks over the whole band, and puts us in danger!”
Brian took a long drag on his cigarette then, sighing out the smoke with a tired, wry smile.
“Paul and John, they’re like… brothers to you, aren’t they?”
This caught George off guard, slightly. He straightened his back against the booth.
“Of course they are.” He replied, a little indignant. He didn’t understand why Brian felt the need to ask such a thing. He knew the answer already. Of course John and Paul were like his brothers. Annoying, know-it-all, bossy big brothers who drove him mad more often than not, but brothers none the less. That wasn’t ever going to change. Not even buggery could change that, even if he wished it did.
“Then you want them to be happy, don’t you?” Brian smiled. “That’s all that matters, George. Forget about press or what other people might think and all those silly things. If they’re happy… well… I can’t speak for you, but for me… that’s good enough.”
George didn’t say anything, but he supposed his response was more or less written all over his face. Brian was smiling, lips resting against the edge of his glass as George silently blinked and smoked and continued drinking, unsure of what else to do. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, other than: Brian, you’re absolutely right, son. And those were five words he didn’t think he’d ever let himself say as long as they were both living and breathing.
“…and,” Brian continued quietly, turning to smile at another unfamiliar face across the club as more people cleared out from their booth to disappear over to the dancefloor, leaving the pair of them alone, together. “…as for the whole danger element. You leave all that worrying to me, George, that’s my job. All you need to worry about is being happy yourself. Being happy and the music. That’s what’s most important.” He squeezed George’s narrow shoulder gently, smiling again. George let himself smile back and then watched on silently as Brian climbed out of the booth, wandering over to the stranger with that business-class smile, shaking hands and laughing and nodding along to the wild, raucous music that boomed around them.
Now, George was alone. Someone had left a tray of whiskey-colas at their table, probably one of the pretty waitresses, so he picked up another to replace his empty glass. He finished his cigarette, looking out across the club at nothing in particular, thinking of John and Paul. He supposed, more so now than ever, they really did seem happy. Whether that was because they were together or not, Brian was right. With the ever-swelling insanity that was starting to become their lifestyle, being happy was a lot more complicated than it sounded.
However, he still couldn’t help but be a bit cross. If John and Paul had really decided to do that- to just fuck the world and be happy instead- he supposed he understood why, and he certainly understood why they’d like to keep the whole thing a secret, but not why they hadn’t once broached the topic to him. He certainly wasn’t interested in getting into any queer stuff himself- but it would’ve been nice to be offered, after all! Plus, keeping their secret from the world was one thing- but what was the deal with keeping the whole thing from him, or Ringo, or Brian? John and Paul treated him like the unwanted kid brother often enough, but that certainly didn’t mean he was childish in comparison to them. He could keep a secret- and no matter how cross he’d gotten with them or how cross he could ever get, his da’ had raised him never to be a grass. Especially not to family.
They could’ve told him. Thinking back now, he had no idea just how long this whole farce had been going on. For all he knew, John and Paul could’ve been shagging from the very beginning! From the Hamburg days, or the sleeping-in-the-back-of-a-moving-tour-bus debacles or maybe even from the day they’d first met. George remembered the ways Paul used to go on and on about John-fucking-Lennon, and how desperate he was (more so even than himself) for George to impress the cooler, older boy.
“George can play Raunchy, all the way through, can’t you George? Show John Raunchy. Oh Johnny, you’re gonna love this.”
Perhaps they’d been doing it far longer than he could imagine. Maybe only now they were starting to get sloppy with it, more obvious. That idea filled George with anxiety. Over the course of a few whiskeys and Brian’s comforting words, he’d decided he could come to terms with the idea of John and Paul buggering each other- as long as he didn’t have to hear it through the walls or see it- like- ever. If he didn’t particularly enjoy watching John and Paul fucking birds, he doubted very much he’d want anything to do with seeing them fuck each other. But the thought of them slipping up and accidentally outing themselves to the entire flipping world, introducing them all likely to a complete onslaught of dire hate… that idea terrified him.
“Quiet one tonight, aren’t ya?”
George was distracted from his choppy, turbulent thoughts by Ringo, slipping into the booth beside him with an unlit cigarette hanging from between his pouty lips. He asked George for a light and wordlessly, George flicked the zippo again, Ringo leaning forwards, inhaling deeply.
“All those for you?” Ringo nodded to the tray of drinks with a playful smile. “Think you’ve got a problem, son.”
George huffed in response, and gave a hint of a smirk. “You’re not wrong.” He said, taking a sip. “Whiskey certainly isn’t my problem though. Whiskey is the solution.”
“Here-here!” Ringo cheered, reaching forwards to grab a drink for himself, knocking his glass against George’s and taking a stiff drink. George looked at Ringo then, with his giant, gleaming smile and his beautiful blue eyes and his devil-may-care attitude and wondered how exhausting it was, being so happy all the time. He didn’t see why John or Paul could bear risking so much even for the opportunity.
“How’s that bird then?” George decided to ask, eager to move the conversation on as quickly as possible before Ringo had chance to sense something was amiss. “The redhead one. She’s… tidy.”
Ringo’s bright smile flickered, only for a second, but for a second long enough that George could catch it, pulse skipping ever so slightly. “Aye, she is tidy, like, but I’m avoiding all that, to be honest.”
“Why’s that then?”
Ringo dropped his sparkling, icy gaze to the table, staring into the liquid soul of his stiff drink.
“Promised Mo, didn’t I?”
At that, George had to give a slight laugh. “Hasn’t stopped you before, has it?”
Ringo looked up at him then, freezing George in his gaze. Privately, George had always loved Ringo’s eyes. They were the bluest blue he’d ever seen- but that wasn’t something he could just tell Ringo. It wasn’t a lad thing to do, tell your best mate his eyes looked pretty. Well, not for him at least. Perhaps that kind of thing was perfectly acceptable for John and Paul.
“Doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty though, does it?” Ringo sighed. “I don’t like lookin’ her in the eyes afterwards, lying to her an’ all that. I promised her, after I was ill and she looked after us that we’d… you know, be true to each other and all that crap. It’s just taking some getting used to, s’all. Don’t you feel the same, with your bird?”
George’s nose wrinkled. “I like Pattie, but I’m only just seeing her. I’m sure she expects that being on tour and all… I’m likely to see other birds too.”
“Aye son,” Ringo nodded, but his smirk was knowing, making George squirm a little in his seat. “-but you haven’t, not really. I’ve only seen you with…. Maybe two birds this whole time we’ve been in America. Could it be that the great George Harrison is… in love?”
Blushing, George looked away from Ringo and covered his telling grin with the rim of his glass. He had to admit, it was true, he did like the pretty model Pattie Boyd they’d met making their film a lot more than he might’ve let on to the other three Beatles. He wasn’t sure why he was so insistent on keeping the whole thing such a secret- John had been married for what felt like ages and Paul had Jane, after all, but something told him that there was more to Pattie than just being his girlfriend or maybe even his wife, one day. Something unknown, maybe even magical, told him that not only her, but what they had between them- had the potential to be very special.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, son.” He chose to instead remain coy, and thankfully, Ringo didn’t push for more. He smiled at George, and the look in his eyes told him all he needed to know. Ringo knew. He was a lot more attentive than most people gave him credit for.
That gave George another thought. He’d only just twigged on to the whole John-and-Paul fiasco and now, casting his mind back, could spot the slight giveaways exhibited by them over the last few years since they’d all been so unceremoniously shoved together.
George knew that Ringo was clever. He wasn’t book-smart like Paul, or quick witted and sharp like John, but he was clever in his own way, funny and oddly perceptive. Almost as perceptive as George, he sometimes liked to think.
Did he have an idea about what was going on behind their backs? George supposed it was entirely possible.
“Jesus, what’s got you all lost in your own head?” Ringo leant forwards and flicked his ear playfully. “You’ve been brooding all night, lad. Haven’t had a tiff with Paul or something, have you?”
“Not a tiff, no…” George sighed, knowing he’d been made. There was no way he could avoid this conversation now. When he wanted something, Ringo could be oddly stubborn, like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t just let it go. He had a borderline obsession with satisfaction, which George had to admit they were all a little guilty of since their mega-fame gave them such a steady stream of instant gratification. It was probably the reason they all found it so hard to be faithful to their wives or girlfriends. Jetting around the world on a non-stop all-singing all-dancing tour of the world- it wasn’t the girls’ fault. They just couldn’t be instantly available at the drop of a hat or passing whim.
“If not a tiff, then what?” Ringo asked.
George paused for a second, biting the inside of his cheek. He had to give some considerable thought to what he was about to do. Potentially, he understood he was risking exposing everything to Ringo- things he might have known about and things he might not have- essentially ousting both John and Paul from their dark, shrouded closet. On the other hand, he reminded himself, this was Ringo- their fourth, last-but-not-least, best-backbeat-in-the-whole-of-Merseyside, big brother. From the day they’d met; even with his wild racked up teddy boy curls and his shocking grey streak in the side, one grey eyebrow and giant, intimidating ned- they all knew that no matter what, Ringo would have their back. He certainly wouldn’t grass them up, no matter what the circumstances.
“I think John and Paul are having some kind of…” he trailed off, unsure how exactly to put his thoughts into words. A good sign was the lack of Ringo’s immediate recoil, plus a significant absence of shouting and accusatory remarks. Ringo didn’t move at all, just watched, listening, until George trailed off into silence and fished another cigarette out of his inside breast pocket.
“…affair?” Ringo offered, and George felt the anxiety physically drain from the inside of his body. Okay, so perhaps Ringo had been clever enough to figure it out, and so far, nobody had been tossed into a scary, American jail cell. Still not quite able to speak, George nodded, and took a comforting drag of smoke. If there was anything he needed now, it was certainly not a cigarette. He needed a joint and itched to get back to his hotel room so he could smoke in peace- but this conversation had to take priority.
“I’d noticed.” Ringo said, causal as ever. George’s jaw nearly dropped at the total flippantness in Ringo’s tone. He hardly reacted at all, and it made George feel a little silly for what felt like hours of deliberation and anxiety over the whole ordeal.
“What do you… think about that?” he asked. Ringo shrugged.
“I don’t think about it at all, really.”
His answer shocked George with it’s simplicity. I don’t think about it at all, really. Ringo’s words bounced about in his skull, repeating themsleevs over and over like some sort of sacred mantra. He’d offered George up the perfect solution in one, simple, sentence. It was almost too easy, and unnerved him in its completeness.
“You make it sound so easy.” He let out a laugh. “Aren’t you constantly on edge, ready to fight off a swarm of American coppers who might toss ‘em both in a prison cell?”
“All that grass, you’ve gone paro, son.” Ringo grinned. “All this being famous lark, it’s not like anyone knows the real us. Nobody would even guess about John and Paul- wouldn’t even enter their heads. Hardly even entered ours, until now, and we’re only noticing because it seems like we spend every waking moment with the prats. And I don’t know about you, but I’m no grass-”
“-me either.” George puffed his chest out, a little indignant at the ghost of an accusation. “I’d never grass them, Ritchie. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”
“I’d pay no mind to it, Georgie.” Calm as ever, Ringo finished his drink and ashed his cigarette in the middle of the swanky, night club table. “They seem happy doing… whatever it is they do together, writing songs and that. And as long as you, me and Eppy keep our gobs shut then everything will be fine, wont it?”
It seemed easy. Almost too easy- stupidly simple, but in that moment, clock on his watch-face ticking past one am and whiskey finally beginning to turn in his stomach, George couldn’t think of a single, rational argument against Ringo’s proposal. They just had to keep on, keep singing and writing and touring the world together as one four-headed musical-monster, and if John and Paul wanted to keep on being John and Paul, whatever that meant… he supposed it really wasn’t any of his business at all.
“I’m going to head back, I think.” He said to Ringo, a yawn slipping out from his mouth as he stood up from the booth, adjusting his jacket.
“Smoke some grass in the suite and then head to bed?”
“You know it.” George grinned. “You coming?”
Ever the weak, red-blooded, pathetic man, George watched as Ringo’s eyes floated back over in the direction of the red-headed bird, who’d been looking over at them every minute or so, shooting flirtatious smiles with that stupid, extra-long cigarette between her slim fingers. George hadn’t seen her smoke it once, and the ash was stockpiling at the end. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was somebody pretending to smoke in order to look cool. She wasn’t all that, really, now that he’d had a good look at her- but Ringo was eyeing her like a tiger looking at a steak, pink tongue darting out between dry, lying lips.
“I might give it another hour or so.”
“Right then.” George nodded. He didn’t have the energy to argue, or lecture Ringo on the things he should or shouldn’t do. He was going to take their drummers advice, actually, and just not think about it at all. It seemed to be a much less stress-inducing way of life.
He made it back to the hotel quickly, as it was only ‘round the corner from the nightclub and at this time of night, for once, there wasn’t an audience of screaming children to appease when he stepped out into the cool, Atlantic night air. He made his way back to their suite with relatively little commotion, just a few late-night workers and guests milling around the lobby letting out short, excited gasps when they saw him brush past before disappearing into the elevator.
Silently, he’d hoped Paul might at least still be awake so he could have a quiet word, let slip the news that he and Ringo and Brian all knew about his and John’s little dalliance and that they’d all agreed to keep it quiet as long as they did their best not to make things obvious when they were in public. He was feeling good about having the power position, for once, and couldn’t hide the slight smirk on his face as he bypassed the security guards and let himself into their giant, shared suite. They’d blocked off the whole top floor of the hotel, but all four Beatle’s had decided to just share the presidential suite, John and Paul in a twin room at one end, he and Ringo in the other. Between that were two bathrooms and one large, reception room with a colour TV and a bunch of fancy, velvet couches that weren’t actually as comfy to sit on as they might have looked.
It was almost two am now, so he was expecting John and Paul to be shut up in their room, likely asleep or maybe (he gulped nervously just thinking about it) shagging, but as he unlocked the door, he was met with a sight he certainly wasn’t expecting.
With all his fretting over John and Paul, George hadn’t once thought of their affair as anything other than that- an affair. He imagined it to be all sexual, all torn-up bedsheets and quickies in studio bathrooms. He didn’t think they cuddled, or anything like that. They had birds for that- and wasn’t that sort of the point of going queer, anyway? You didn’t have to do all that naff, lovey-dovey bird stuff. Just bloke stuff- shagging and maybe sharing a joint afterwards! Now that he thought about it, he could actually see the perks-
-But in the darkness of the hotel suite, George bore silent witness to a very different side to the Lennon-McCartney affair than he was expecting. The only light in the room was that magnificent, colour TV, playing out some gaudy Hollywood TV-show, all smiling women with low-cut dresses and too much lipstick, bright sets and garish, glowing lights. John and Paul were sitting together on the sofa, their backs to him but their expressions clear as day, reflected in the mirror hung just behind the TV set. George could see them, but they were so focused on both the film, and each other, that there was no way he would be spotted.
So George stood still and watched.
They weren’t shagging like crazy. They weren’t actually shagging at all, they were just sitting there, side by side, Paul’s head resting on John’s shoulder, John’s arm wrapped around Paul’s back, holding him close. In one hand he had a neatly wrapped joint that they’d apparently been passing back and forth, judging by the overall smell of the room and the redness he caught in Paul’s eyes whenever they were lit up by the TV, and with the other, John was stroking his fingers languidly up and down Paul’s ankle from where his two legs were tucked neatly into John’s lap. They were cuddled together like and old married couple, for fucks sake! George was reminded, oddly enough, of his parents and the occasional tender moments he’d caught between them over the years- sometimes sat by the fire, on the sofa, reading a book or having a rare glass of wine together.
Paul scooted closer, laughing at something one of the characters said. His attention was on the TV, but John’s was focused elsewhere, eyes downcast as he watched Paul watch the movie, smiling. It wasn’t the usual smile George was used to John wearing. That fuck-the-press, sarcastic, witty Lennon-smirk that basically told you to fuck off, because you weren’t anywhere near as clever as him and you never-would-be-smile was nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with something so much softer. Tender, even. It was both warming and unnerving to watch.
All the words he’d been ready to say to Paul (his safer bet when it came to broaching more sensitive issues without getting socked in the face) about keeping things quiet and not fucking the rest of them over by whatever it was he and John were getting up to died on his tongue. All the resentment, the confusion, the anxiety… it just melted away. George finally understood what Brian had said- what Ringo had meant with his I don’t think about it at all, really. He thought he’d understood before. He thought they’d all been on the same page: silent, irritated tolerance at John and Paul’s dabbling into homosexuality. A promise not to grass, but an agreement that they wouldn’t be happy about it either.
Now he saw the real truth, unfolding right before his very eyes as John dropped a kiss onto the top of Paul’s head, making the bass player grin, before leaning up to drop another on John’s lips, short and chaste before they both turned their attention back to the TV. This wasn’t some sordid, dirty affair spurned on by the shared prison sentence that was their suffocating fame and an eagerness to try new things, have a new experience, push the boundaries of what was okay and what was decent.
Before now, George didn’t think anything Paul and John were doing together could be considered decent. Now- he wasn’t so sure. They didn’t look particularly shocking, cuddled up together like that. There were no crazy boundaries being pushed, no wild drugged-up experiences or risqué meetings in grotty loos. John and Paul just looked… well… it was strange to even think- but John and Paul looked like they were just in love.
He supposed it made as much sense as anything else in their insane lives did. John and Paul were fucking head over heels for each other, apparently, and even though he’d never seen it coming, George immediately knew that it was true. And it didn’t matter if some people thought it was wrong, or indecent or against their poxxy religious beliefs. It was love. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that. It went against the very definition of the word.
Deciding not to intrude on their moment, George crept back out of the room and locked the door behind him. Thankfully, neither John nor Paul had noticed him playing voyeur. In truth, he didn’t suspect they had many opportunities to even be together, like that, when they were on the road. There was always some appearance, some concert, some party afterwards. Moments alone were few a far between and George supposed, being a good friend and brother and all- he could let them have the rest of this one, at least until Ringo got home.