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They only record at night because that's the only time John can be arsed to be awake enough to play. Paul obeys John's lead because that's the way it's always been and wherever Paul goes, George and Ritchie must follow.
Sort of.
Ten years later little has changed and George wonders if he's finally turned into a nocturnal creature, like an owl. An owl with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, standing on Abbey Road's steps, blearily pondering a slowly lightening sky.
"Give me that."
Ritchie's voice and George doesn't blink when the cigarette is plucked from his lips, sensitive skin brushed by a pair of calloused fingers. From the corner of his eye he can see Ritchie press the glowing tip to his own smoke, puffing to light it, gray wisps rising through the damp chill.
He hands George back his cigarette. "This is bullshit," Ritchie drawls in that slow, deadpan way of his that seems like an affectation, but in truth, that's just the way he talks. "Some of us like to sleep at night."
George can't help a wry grin. "Do you like to sleep at night?"
A warm chuckle and those same calloused fingers reach out to caress George's hand, like a promise. "Or do other things."
"What sort of other things?"
"The sort of things that are better at night, but can wait until morning."
Now George isn't tired anymore, as the sky starts to turn bright pink at its edges. "And then the sun rose," he says, smiling, knowing that sleep is a long time away.