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Betty's Cafe sat wedged between a newsagent's and a shoe repair shop, the kind of place that collected rainwater in its awning and served tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. On this particular Tuesday in 1958, George Harrison was performing what Paul McCartney considered to be an act of profound betrayal.
"That's half my bloody egg salad you've just inhaled," Paul said, watching in mild horror as George demolished the remainder of what had definitively been Paul's lunch. They were crammed into the corner booth where the linoleum was peeling and the tea always tasted faintly of dish soap. Rain drummed against the window, making the world outside look like a watercolor left out in the wet.
George looked up, mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth, utterly unrepentant. "You weren't eating it fast enough. Besides, you still owe me sixpence from Tuesday."
"That sixpence was for bus fare, you thieving git, not bloody sandwich rights." Paul reached for his cup of tea, found it empty save for dregs and a suspicious looking leaf. "And you owe me for the cinema last week."
"That doesn't count. I got us in through the back door, didn't I?"
"Yeah, and nearly got us arrested when old Jenkins caught us."
"But he didn't catch us," George said with that particular grin of his, the one that made him look both older and younger than fifteen. "Because I'm dead clever."
"Dead something," Paul muttered, but he was fighting a smile now. It was impossible to stay properly angry with George, who had somehow mastered the art of being simultaneously infuriating and endearing.
Betty herself moved between the tables with mechanical efficiency, her beehive hairdo defying both gravity and fashion. She'd known them since they were small enough to need a phone book to reach the table, had watched them grow from proper little boys in pressed shirts to these strange creatures in leather and denim who brought guitars to her cafe and practiced chord progressions between bites of chips.
"Another tea, loves?" she asked, already reaching for Paul's cup.
"Ta, Betty," George said, then added with hopeful eyes, "Any chance of a biscuit? On account?"
"On account of what? Your pretty face?" But she was already reaching into her apron pocket, producing two slightly broken digestives. "Here. Don't tell the management."
"You are the management," Paul pointed out.
"Exactly. So don't tell me about it." She winked and moved off, leaving them with their contraband biscuits and the comfortable silence of old friends.
The cafe radio crackled with static, some American song fighting through the interference. George was carefully breaking his digestive into precise quarters, a habit he'd developed during rationing and never quite shaken. Everything about him was precise, Paul thought – the careful way he held himself, the methodical manner in which he approached both food and music, the sharp intelligence behind his quiet exterior.
"Here," George said suddenly, fishing in his pocket. He produced a slightly squashed packet of Fruit Pastilles. "Peace offering. Since I did nick your sandwich."
"So you admit to the theft!"
"I admit to nothing except having superior timing and faster reflexes." George popped a pastille into his mouth with exaggerated pleasure. "Besides, your da always makes too much filling. He knows I come round for lunch."
"He feels sorry for you," Paul said, accepting the candy with exaggerated graciousness. "Thinks you're underfed."
"I'm a growing boy."
"Growing pain in my arse, more like."
George reached over and stole a pastille right out of Paul's hand. "But I'm your pain in the arse."
There was something in his voice then, something warm and certain, that made Paul look up. George was watching him with that peculiar intensity he sometimes had, like he was memorizing something important.
"What?" Paul asked.
"Nothing." George turned back to his methodically quartered biscuit. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit, that."
"Learned it from you, didn't I?" George brushed crumbs from his fingers. "You're always thinking. Always working something out in that head of yours. Songs and arrangements and what comes next."
"Someone's got to."
"Yeah." George's voice was quiet. "Someone's got to."
The rain grew heavier, drummer against the windows like impatient fingers on a tabletop. The radio static cleared for a moment, and Paul could hear what sounded like "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" fighting through the interference, which was impossible because they hadn't written it yet, wouldn't write it for years and--
The cafe dissolved around them like sugar in hot tea. They weren't in Liverpool anymore, and George wasn't fifteen, and the rain wasn't falling on Betty's worn awning but on the windows of a very different room.
George lay in his bed, thin and worn but still unmistakably George. The Fruit Pastilles had become a paper cup of water with a plastic straw. But his eyes – his eyes were the same, sharp and knowing and full of that peculiar intensity.
"You're thinking again," George said softly, his voice rough but warm with affection. "I can see it on your face."
"Just remembering," Paul managed, his throat tight. "Betty's Cafe. That egg salad sandwich you stole."
"Which time?" George's laugh was whispery but genuine. "I ate half your lunch at least twice a week back then."
"Cheeky bastard." Paul adjusted the blanket around George's shoulders. "You never did learn to share properly."
"Neither did you," George said. He shifted slightly, wincing. "Remember those Fruit Pastilles?"
"The ones you used to cut in half with that penknife you nicked from your dad?"
"Borrowed," George corrected. "And yes. You always complained I took the bigger half."
"You always did."
"Had to." George laughed weakly. "Growing boy, wasn't I?"
George's laugh turned into a cough. When it subsided, he reached for Paul's hand. His fingers were cold, but they still had those familiar calluses from guitar strings. "You know what I miss most?"
"What's that?"
"The ordinary bits. Not the concerts or the studios or any of that. Just... sitting in grotty cafes, arguing about sandwiches. Being young and stupid and thinking we had all the time in the world."
Paul squeezed his hand. "We did have all the time in the world. We used it up, that's all."
"Not quite all of it," George said, and his voice was weaker now but his grip was still strong. "Got enough left for one more theft, I reckon."
He reached over to Paul's jacket, which hung on the back of the chair, and with trembling fingers extracted a packet of mints from the pocket.
"Thieving git," Paul whispered, his vision blurring.
"Your thieving git," George corrected. His face was gaunt but his eyes were bright with unshed tears and that familiar mischief. "Always was."
The rain fell harder outside, drumming against the window like it had that day in Liverpool, when they were young and hungry and thought they had forever. George's hand became warmer in Paul's, and somewhere, two boys were sharing the last Fruit Pastille, not knowing it would matter so much, not knowing every ordinary moment was precious beyond measure.
"You know," George said after a while, his voice drowsy, "You never did pay me back that sixpence."
Paul laughed through the ache in his chest. "You still owe me for about a thousand sandwiches too."
"Put it on my tab." George's eyes were closing. "I'm good for it. Next time..."
He drifted off before finishing the sentence, his breathing shallow but steady. Paul sat there holding his hand, watching the autumn light paint shadows across George's face, thinking about all the next times they'd had, all the next times they wouldn't.
The radio in the corner played softly – something about sweet dreams and flying machines. Paul closed his eyes and for a moment he could taste egg salad and cheap tea, could hear Betty's ancient radio crackling through the static, could feel the weight of George's lean shoulder against his in a cramped cafe booth.
"Love you," he whispered, and kept holding his friend's hand as the afternoon light slowly faded, each moment precious as a split pastille, sweet as shared memory, brief as forever.