Chapter Text
At last, near lunch, Richard finished decorating the studio. He stuck portraits on the wall, restocked the old acrylics and watercolours, and Brian had had bookshelves specially fitted in the cabinet for all his art books. John came to fetch him when he was adding stickers to his schedule.
“Come now, ye still like these?” He picked up the sheet of sparkling stars.
“This way it’s nicer to look at,” Richard stuck a gold one to the edges of where his name was printed. “You want one?”
John snorted. So Richard kept mum about the green one that had slipped onto John’s hand as they made their way to the canteen. He didn’t even notice it as he took out his wallet to count his bills.
“Don’t worry, they’ve got yer beans.”
Richard pretended to swoon with relief. The bell rang when they entered, and the students milling the doors with trays bowed their heads.
“Afternoon Mister Lennon!”
“Yo. Say hello to Mister Starkey,” John instructed. “Call him Sir Richard and he’ll teach you the seven wonders of MS Paint.”
This earned them a fair amount of giggles. “That and many more,” Richard added. “Hey guys. Hope ta see you in class!”
“Afternoon Mister Starkey!” came the chorus. An even bigger smile broke out on Richard’s face as he looked at all these students. They were even nicer than he thought.
“Now bog off, it’s lunchtime,” John shooed them all. “ ‘member yer Gatsby books tomorrow, yeah?”
Some of the younger-looking students groaned, but still waved before they left. Richard joined John in the queue and reached for his own wallet, but pulled out two empty trouser pockets.
“Ah shit.”
“I’ll hold yer place in line,” John offered.
“But the students?”
John simply grinned and shooed him like he did with the kids at the door. Richard then hurried to the second floor staff room. He hadn’t yet settled into his new desk in the hectic morning, so he’d left it in the lounge while he helped himself to a biscuit. He flung the door open and ran in, only to then stop completely in his tracks.
In front of him at the table sat a man with a glorious dark head of hair that went slightly past his shoulders, in the middle of eating prata and curry from a takeaway wrap. Propped against a water bottle was a phone playing a Monty Python episode.
He scowled when he turned to look at Richard, but dear god were his eyes so deep-set and brown. Richard felt a little embarrassed then. Thank goodness he then spotted his bag on the floor next to this man’s chair.
“So sorry to disturb you.” He smiled. “But my bag’s next to yer foot down there.”
“Oh,” The man softened as he reached for the strap and lifted it out carefully. Richard moved forward to take it from him, but the man immediately placed it on the table and returned to watching the skits.
Richard was a little disappointed. This was obviously his cue to just grab his wallet and run, but this man’s face was truly a work of art. There was a very subtle softness to his sharp features. His slender fingers looked like those of a string musician as he peeled the prata into pieces and spooned them with curry.
“Thank you,” he nodded, hands on his bag. “Richard Starkey, by the way.”
George was hungry. He’d missed the last minute of dialogue on the show. And yet, this unfamiliar man— Richard —was still here. After the morning he’d had, he’d love nothing more than to shove his earbuds deeper into his ears, but something about Richard’s warm smile held him back.
Sighing, he hit pause and tugged the earbuds out. “ ’m George.”
“Jus’ George?”
George huffed out a tiny laugh. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
“Nah.” To George’s surprise, Richard pulled up a chair. “That looks good,” he said, nodding to the curry.
“Well, ’s mine,” George said a bit harsher than he meant to.
But Richard just burst out laughing. “I’m not stealing yer food, don’t worry. Not sure I could handle it, anyway.”
George almost asked him what he meant before remembering that the minutes were ticking past, and he still had twenty minutes left in this episode. “I don’t wanna keep ye here,” George said, reaching for his headphones.
“Oh— right.” Richard slid his chair back and stumbled to his feet, bag across his shoulder. “See ya ‘round...unless you’d like to join us?”
“Who’s us?”
“My mate John, the english geek. I’m sure he’d love the extra company.”
If anyone else had made the suggestion, George would have considered it pity for the “cranky old loner,” but Richard seemed like he genuinely wanted his company. It made it harder to turn him down. “Thanks, but I’ll stick to me show. And I’ve had enough loud noises for the day ‘thout puttin’ up with the screams in the canteen.”
“Ah. Got some troublemakers in yer classes?”
“Not quite. But when you’ve got trumpets and saxes wailing in yer ears all morning, I think you’re due for some peace and quiet.”
Richard’s eyes lit up, and George was struck by how blue they were. “You’re the band director?”
“The one and only. What ‘bout you? Ye new here?”
“Yeah.” Richard smiled. “Thought that was obvious.”
Shrugging, George fiddled with a piece of his prata. “So many faces ‘round here, they all start to blur together, y’know?”
“Guess so.” Richard made for the door at last, then paused. “For the record, I don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ yer face anytime soon.”
The prata fell back onto its wrap. George tried to sputter out a response, but Richard was gone before he could. Shaking his head and muttering to himself, George reached for his water bottle to get something cold to calm himself down— completely forgetting that the bottle was holding his phone up.
George jumped as the phone smacked flat against the table, then groaned. Thank god Richard wasn’t there to see this.
Thankfully John and the empty space he was fiercely guarding were only second in line to the dinner lady when Richard barrelled back in.
“Christ, ye went to Timbuktu for that?”
“Nooooo,” Richard fetched a tray from the bottom counter. “I was—”
“What’ll it be,” the dinner lady said gruffly. Richard bounced on his feet for the first time in months as he and John collected their sandwiches and milk, and were then finally secluded in the staff section.
“You were sayin’?” John said. “You didn’t get dripped on by the air-con, did ye?”
“Uh, no,” Richard fished his straw in and out of the carton to busy his hand. “I met someone. What do you know ‘bout…. George?”
John surprisingly lit up. “Oh, I love him! He’s the greatest!”
“Really?”
“Of fuckin’ course. Hell, ‘e was my teacher when I was here. Now he used to row with me when I cursed in me essays, but never once snitched on me to Mimi. Good ol’ Mister Martin. Though I probably am the reason why he won’t teach the Juniors no more—”
“Wait, no,” Richard laughed. “Not that George.”
John then went deadly silent.
“I meant the… the younger one. Ya know, the band director—”
John burst into loud, hysterical giggles. A group of students holding a science board dropped their project as they passed by.
“What?? What???” Richard panicked.
“YOU MEANT HARRISON?”
Richard had no clue what this meant. George had seemed perfectly nice to him, albeit a tad icier than the milk in his carton.
“Oh my God, ye talked to him? And he talked back??” John wheezed as he tore open his own milk. “Congrats.”
“For— what for?”
“Keepin’ yer head.”
Richard now had double no clue what this meant. “He seemed fine,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Jus’ introduced meself, that’s all.”
John only snorted.
“And he was rather fit.”
John snorted out all his milk.
Richard was then subjected to a long lecture about why chatting up Mister George Harrison, Band Director, was as good as a goose chase. Most of it which he found ludicrous, and because John started ranting on how Monty Python wasn’t even that good anyway. Other reasons included how annoyingly scowly he was, how much spicy food he ate, and did he mention he was a Grumpy Little Introvert? Poor Extroverted Richard would have his heart in pieces by the end of the week.
Maybe it was good that both of them had classes to teach after lunch. Richard certainly could focus on something other than the marvellousness of George’s striking features. His first class were seniors who were confused to where his predecessor had gone, but warmed up to him the second he allowed them to listen to music while they worked. His next class were Juniors who monopolised his sheets of stickers when he tasked them to create name tags. He ran out by the time his next Juniors came in, so instead he assigned portraits.
“Who are we s’posed to draw, sir?” one of the girls asked.
“Anyone! Draw yourself if you like; I’ll give you a mirror to use.”
“Can we draw footballers, sir?” asked one boy.
“Of course ye can!”
“But what if I wanna draw One Direction?”
“All five of ‘em? Go right ahead! I love yer ambition!”
It went better than he thought. The students went silent with concentration, sketching eagerly or looking up good references to use. Richard was just about to take a seat at his desk when one of the boys raised his hand.
“Alright, lad?”
“Who are you gunna draw, sir?”
“Me?” Richard looked around, as if a prepared model were in the room ready for him.
“Aren’t you gonna make one too?”
“I’m yer teacher,” Richard jokingly pretended to huff. “I don’t gotta do me own homework, do I?”
“But who would you draw?” asked another girl. “D’you like One Direction?”
“Now that was a while ago, but I probably wouldn’t go fer all five.”
“Would ye draw yourself?”
“Don’t worry, you won’t see any productions of me mug.”
“But what does your art look like?” challenged the boy. His eyebrows waggled in a way that made Richard chuckle.
“Alright, alright, I’ll do one. But no hopes up, ‘cause I’ll get someone handsome to pose, yeah?” and the whole class laughed.
It wasn’t like he was lying. In fact he already had the perfect model in mind— but every time he passed the band room it was exploding with music. That was the Number One clue that walking in anyway would cause a wobbly. The band was still going strong after school and after Richard had taken his time with tea. The promise to have a handsome portrait done by the time they came back next week hung over his head like a particularly heavy painting.
It was four whole days till Friday afternoon before he was lucky. Brian had commandeered his studio to be converted into the reception area for the parents after Saturday’s Winter Concert. Richard had spent the day snipping snowflake chains and spray-painting the school logo onto styrofoam snowmen with the students. Old Miss Rachel from housecraft had even dropped by during the last class with a tray of cookies, of which Richard was mobbed of in an instant.
“Stop! Hold yer horses!” Richard set the tray on his desk. “Everyone line up!”
The hungry Juniors did as they were told, as all children do when chocolate chips were involved. He handed out one to each student, and then saved one for himself. But then there was still one left, so Richard checked that no one had gone to the loo before discreetly wrapping it in a napkin. When the day ended Richard tidied up the tables and left to get his tea— past a silent band room.
Richard’s heart soared. The lights were still bright through the windows at the top. He was then so relieved that he hadn’t eaten the spare cookie in his pocket. He dashed up to the band room’s doors, knocked, pushed them open—
And was greeted by a sonic boom.
Finally, George felt like the Senior Band was making some progress. The Giroux piece had already sounded messy before winter holiday, and the break had only made them sloppier. Not that George could blame them, really. What child - or adult, for that matter - would want to spend New Year’s Day practicing? The sudden improvement the day before the concert was a breath of fresh air.
Until a certain new teacher decided to burst into the room just as they were starting their final run-through of the piece. And cling to the nearby mark tree in shock. And trip over his own two feet, sending both himself and the percussion instrument hurtling towards the floor.
The students pulled their instruments away from their mouths to spin toward the loud clang behind them. A few chimes from the mark tree tore loose from their strings and rolled across the floor.
Whispers quickly escalated to gasps and to a very loud “What happened?”
Sighing heavily, George set down his baton. He was about to head to the back of the room and deal with Richard as discreetly as possible, but Richard leapt to his feet before he could step off the podium. Richard’s cheeks were bright red, and they grew redder as the whole room stared at him.
With a shaky hand, he reached into his pocket and held up a pile of crumbs. “I um… I brought ye a cookie.”
After a minute of trying to restore order, George gave up and dismissed them. He had already held them a couple minutes after the final bell, he shouldn’t hold them much longer. He stuffed his scores into his folder and dropped it off in his office before checking on the mark tree - and Richard.
“Alright?” George said to Richard, who had replaced the cookie crumbs in his hands with the loose bars from the instrument.
He winced. “ I’m fine - but god, I’m sorry about yer metal...thing.”
“It’s fine,” George said, only half meaning it. “Won’t take too long to fix. But what the hell-” he broke off when he noticed a couple students standing nearby. “What on earth are ye doing here? You didn’t come down here just for a cookie, did you?”
Richard scratched his ear with his free hand. “Not just the cookie. I wanted to ask ye somethin’—”
“Mister Harrison?” Natalie stared up at him, a trombone case in her hands and a handful of whispering onlookers right behind her. “Is your boyfriend coming to our concert?”
“...Uhhhhhhh.” George’s brain shut down. “He’s… he’s not…”
“I’d love to go to the concert!” Richard piped up.
“ What? ” George snapped. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But he brought you a cookie,” Natalie said just as Richard slapped a hand over his own mouth. Evidently his brain had finally caught up with his voice.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” George insisted. “He’s a new teacher here.”
Richard, who had finally composed himself, offered Natalie his hand. His bright attitude softened the atmosphere, and within a minute he sent her and her friends on their way. Based on the way the kids giggled amongst themselves as they left, George would be dealing with the repercussions for a while.
George shut the door behind the last student. Then he whirled around on Richard. “Seriously, what the fuck are ye doing here?”
“ ’m sorry,” Richard said, “ ’m a million times sorry.”
“You’d better be. You broke an instrument the day before my concert, stopped our rehearsal, and now half the school’s gonna think we’re dating.”
Richard clutched the chimes in his hands. “I’ll help you fix this. Just tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it.”
Rubbing his temples, George considered the proposal. It wasn’t like Richard could break it twice. Could he?
George gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Fine. Wait here, I’ll grab the string.”
When George returned with the string, Richard had laid the chimes out on the ground in order. “Alright,” George said as he unrolled some from the spool, “I’ll measure out the string, you tie them on.”
“What kinda knot?”
“The kind that won’t make me have ta kill you if they fall off during the concert.”
“...”
George sighed. “Relax. These things are light, they ain’t gonna fall off. Honestly, I don’t know how you knocked them off in the first place. Were ye trying to break it?”
“God, no, I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off when he looked at George’s grin. “Oh. You’re messin’ with me.”
“Mm-hm.”
“So you’re not gonna kill me?”
“Nah. If I killed you, who’d bring me cookies?”
“Still not me.” Richard pointed to the bin where he had dumped the crumbs.”
“Eh. ‘A’ for effort.”
Despite being the reason George was in this mess in the first place, Richard wasn’t too bad a companion. His knots were solid and he worked fast. They even made amicable conversation while they worked. George learned that Richard was the new art teacher, and that he was even a bit of a percussionist himself.
A few minutes later, George ran his finger down the line of repaired chimes and smiled when it held together. “Perfect. Now, are you gonna tell me what brought you here, or are you gonna keep apologizing and avoiding my question?”
“Oh! Right. I was wonderin’ if you could help me out with an art project.” George listened patiently as Richard rambled through a tale of stickers and name tags and portraits that was only halfway comprehensible.
“...so anyway, they suckered me into doing a portrait of me own.”
“So, what then?” George said. “You want me to hold a mirror fer you while you draw yer face?”
“No.” Richard’s cheeks turned pink. “I’d like you to be my model.”
George stared at him. “Sorry, what? ”
“I-it won’t take long. I’ll work fast, promise. But you have a very pleasant face an’ I’d like to capture it.”
This had to be some kind of practical joke. Maybe it was a caricature and George would arrive at school next week to see posters of his pointy face and protruding ears plastered all over the walls. “Why me? ”
Richard looked down and played with his hands. “Well, I haven’t met many people here yet, and I figure y’know how to appreciate art. But if you don’t wanna, I understand.”
And now George had made him frown. He barely knew this man, but seeing his cheerful face twisted downward tugged at his heartstrings. George sighed. “It really won’t take long?”
Richard brightened up instantly. “Not at all! We could head to my studio and do it right now if you like.”
“I’m, uh, kinda busy. Y’know, with the concert tomorrow and all.”
“Oh — right, right.” Richard tapped a finger against his chin. “What ‘bout after? Ya got plans then?”
“You’re gonna drive out here just to draw me for half an hour, then drive back home?”
“No, I’ll be at the concert, remember?”
“Oh.” George hadn’t thought he was serious. “I guess that would work.”
They chatted for a bit longer as George packed up, then he bid Richard farewell. As he walked out to the car, his cheeks flushed bright pink against the snow.
Must have been a particularly cold day. That’s all.