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John is staring at the wall, and George doesn’t know what to do. It’s been two hours of this already, and he’s barely moved. Astrid is still hovering, quiet in her grief, camera in her hands. George stands beside the chair John is sitting in and wishes that there was someone there to tell him how to fix it. How to bring John back to himself – how to bring Stuart back at all.
That’s impossible, of course. Stu’s gone, and John’s barely here either, and nobody is going to come along to give George an easy solution. So he stands at John’s shoulder and he listens to Astrid’s camera click away and he waits.
When John eventually does speak, it’s completely out of the blue, and quiet enough that only George can hear him. “Everyone I care about leaves me.”
Shock tightens in George’s chest, but he’s quick to reply. “I won’t.”
“If I care about you any more, you will.” There’s a pause, and John casts his dark gaze up at the rafters as if an answer lies somewhere in ceiling. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, George is horrified to hear his voice shake on a repressed sob. “It’s too late for Paul.”
It twists sharp in George’s gut, the way that John had just essentially point-blank admitted out loud that he likes Paul more than him. He can’t be angry, though, or even hurt, not when John is so clearly shattering apart right in front of him. It’s just not important right now, and besides, it’s not like he hasn’t always known it anyway.
Tentative, he reaches forward and settles his hand on John’s shoulder, trying to ground him with gentle pressure. John stays perfectly still in the chair, doesn’t react in the slightest.
“I’m a curse,” he mutters, talking to himself more than George. “I curse everyone I love.”
George flounders, feeling very small and young under the enormity of the assertion. Of course he wants to tell him that it’s not true, but he’s never heard John sound so sure of something and he’s lost as to where to even begin.
He squeezes John’s shoulder tighter and this time he feels a reaction, a faint shudder under his touch. He shakes his head, although he’s still positioned beside John and isn’t sure if he can tell. They stay like that in silence for a while, until George finally manages to find his voice again, to tear it free from where it’s gotten caught in his throat. “No,” he rasps out. “That’s not – that’s shit, John.”
Another shudder under his hand, but this time it’s because he lets out a short laugh. “Fucking hell. I’m whining to a goddamn baby.” He sounds somewhat more like himself again, and George is too relieved by it to let the comment irk him as much as it normally would. Then, John rises suddenly from the chair and George lets his hand fall uselessly back down to his side.
“Thanks, Georgie,” he says, knocking him lightly with his shoulder as he turns. “It’s all shit, isn’t it?” John exhales sharply. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He’s already walking out, not even looking back to see if he’s following, but George doesn’t mind it. He understands, he thinks, reckons that maybe John feels like if doesn’t leave now he might never be able to bring himself to at all.
Astrid walks them out and gives them each a hug goodbye. John is somewhat subdued but otherwise seems relatively normal – no sign at all of his previous distress. Somehow, that worries George more than it might have if he was noticeably upset.
Astrid clearly feels the same, because she sets her face against George’s as she hugs him and whispers into his ear, “take care of him.” The words settle like a stone in his stomach, both weighty and steadying at once. What about you? Who’s taking care of you? he wants to ask, but John’s already started to walk back down the street and George is not about to let him get even a step away.
When they reach the corner, he glances back and waves goodbye. He sees that Astrid is crying again, but her face is set and resolute and he soothes himself with the reminder that she has her family with her. Right now, what John has is him, and he’s not going to let him down.
It’s not until a couple of months later that George thinks more specifically about what John had said to him in the apartment. Things have changed a lot since Stu died – they’d finally secured a record contract, signed on with Parlophone, and now the whole of England is stretched out in front of them for the taking.
They’re recording for the first time in a proper studio and they’re all beyond giddy with it – aside from Pete, anyway, who’s sitting stiffly behind the kit with his gaze fixed on his drumsticks, seeming to George glaringly out of place. In contrast, John and Paul are loose-limbed and happy and undeniably in their element, so at ease that it’s suddenly perfectly clear to George that they were born to be here. They play brilliantly, beautifully, all while still laughing and feeding off of each other like they always do.
He watches them joke with one another, thrilled to be here and fiercely fond of them and a bit envious in a way that pulls tight like a cord in his gut. John leans into Paul, and Paul allows it, continues to talk to the producer, George Martin, with his hands waving wildly as he explains what he wants for the song.
John is watching him with a gaze so fond that George couldn’t possibly miss it, even from the other side of the room. That’s nothing he hasn’t noticed before, but it’s only right then that he really processes the way that he’s swaying in towards Paul, not even realizing he’s doing it, probably not even capable of stopping it. It’s like there’s some magnetic force drawing them together, or, more specifically, drawing John in towards Paul. It’s always been there, he thinks, but ever since Stuart died it’s become far more obvious.
John’s always seemed so above everything else, too cool to need anybody, but George has been slowly realizing how utterly untrue that is. And now he sees it, plain as can be: John needs Paul. Since Stuart died, he’s seen him cling more and more to Paul – always touching him, reaching for him, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Clingy but trying to hide it, volatile and aloof in turns. All of those little things that George had quietly taken note of without thinking much bubble up to the surface of his thoughts now as he watches John watch Paul, sees the way that he presses their ankles together and clings to the guitar in his lap tightly enough that his knuckles go white.
He thinks of John’s words, whispered like a confession that day in Stuart’s apartment – it’s too late for Paul – and something suddenly clicks in his head. The way he’s acting, keeping such careful track of Paul – he’s frightened that he’ll lose him. It’s like he really believes those things he’d muttered that day, that he’s cursed Paul because he loves him too much, that he’ll lose him because of it.
Paul makes some joke and John laughs much harder than is warranted. His eyes shine as he looks at Paul and George can tell without a shadow of a doubt that he’s not at all aware of anything other than him. He knew that John loved Paul. He knew that. But this. This. His stomach twists with a sudden anxiety.
John needs Paul, and Paul has no idea.
Maybe it’s easier to recognize while looking in from the outside, or maybe Paul’s just too thick to see it. To see that if John ever loses him, he’ll lose himself too.
He watches Paul knock his shoulder against John’s and then rise to return to his mic, casual, thoughtless. Entirely oblivious to the way in which John’s body sways instinctively towards him as he goes, how his fingers twitch against the strings of his guitar, reaching fruitlessly for something that he can’t quite grasp.
George had made a kind of pledge to himself that day at the apartment, a promise to protect John however he could. So as he sits there playing his own guitar, slowly processing the fact that Paul is holding John’s heart in his hands and is completely unaware of it, he reaches the inevitable conclusion that something has to be done. Something has to be done, and he’s going to have to be the one to do it.
After their studio session, Brian takes them out for dinner at a posh restaurant in the city. They celebrate the huge step up they’ve just taken, that they have their first single recorded and George Martin liked them and the deal with Parlophone is secured. They’re deliriously happy, half-mad with it – probably would get themselves kicked out of the restaurant if not for Brian smooth talking the staff on their behalf. George enjoys himself plenty too, laughs and jokes along with the others, but he doesn’t let himself get distracted enough to forget what he’s resolved himself to do.
It's surprisingly difficult to get Paul alone, but he sees a sliver of opportunity once they get back to the Royal Court Hotel, where they’re staying while in London. Brian stops them in the hallway to discuss the plans for the next day before wishing them a good night, and then Pete disappears into the room that he’s sharing with George while John goes off into the other. Paul delays a moment longer to call a polite goodbye at Brian’s retreating back, and George is quick to take the chance that it offers him.
“Paul,” he says, catching the fabric of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger as he goes to trail after John into their room.
“Yeah?”
“Wait a moment, will you?”
Paul lets out a tiny bitten-off sigh and turns back around to face George with that irritating indulgent look of his that somehow manages to make George feel as if he’s eight years younger than Paul rather than only eight months. He suddenly feels off-kilter and entirely unsure where to start, or even what to say at all. After a few moments, Paul crosses his arms and starts tapping his foot impatiently, though his expression remains unchanging.
“You don’t see what I see,” he blurts out. The tapping instantly stops and Paul’s face twists into something defensive and angry. “With John,” he hurriedly clarifies, but that only makes his face drop further into the glare – unsurprisingly, in retrospect.
“What the hell are you on about?”
“He’s – he’s not – you don’t see him.”
Paul bristles. “What does that even mean? Of course I do. I know John better than anyone.”
“I’m not saying that you don’t –”
“Come on, George, you don’t know him like I do, you know that. I mean, we write songs together and that’s different, you know, you wouldn’t get it.” He’s incredibly defensive and yet somehow still seems unbothered, brushing George off in a way that makes it blatantly obvious that he hadn’t even tried to listen. He seems to consider the conversation over, then, turning back towards his room with an eye roll that isn’t terribly discreet.
George has half a mind to let him go, to spend the night stewing bitterly over it and then to let the whole thing be forgotten in the morning, but then he remembers hearing John’s voice shake that day in Stuart's studio and immediately reaches out to catch his shirt again, holding him back.
“He thinks he’s going to lose you.”
When Paul turns back around, he’s finally looking at George like he’s actually listening. “Did he… say something to you?”
“Yes,” George replies right away, determined to keep Paul’s focus. It’s not a lie, anyway, he basically had. “Won’t you just listen to me for a moment?”
Sharply, Paul nods, and his arms come uncrossed and fall limply to his sides. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then pulls them out again and fiddles with the hem of his shirt instead. After a moment, he presses his palms to his thighs and seems to put in a conscious effort into stilling his movements.
Clearly, being confrontational about it isn’t the right route to go. George tries a different tack. “I don’t know if you realize how much he cares about you. Um,” George hesitates, unsure if it is a betrayal of some sort to expose John this way, but eventually steels himself and presses on. “You know just as well as I do that he’s softer than he pretends to be.”
Paul’s eyes flash, briefly defensive on John’s behalf, but George meets his gaze steadily and smiles softly to show that he doesn't mean it negatively. After a moment, the tension drains out of him and he leans forward, fully focused on him now. “Of course I know that.”
Deep down, George thinks that he doesn’t know, not really, not the way that he does, but he keeps that to himself. “When Stu died,” he starts, and Paul flinches minutely. “He blamed himself.”
“But, he had nothing to do with it.”
“Obviously. I’m sure he – intellectually, he knows that. But in Stu’s apartment, when we went, he told me,” he pauses, licks his lips. Paul is watching him closely, his eyes bright with curiosity and impatience. “He thinks he’s a curse. He thinks it’s going to get you.”
Paul tips his head to the side. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Listen, he…” His chest goes tight with nerves, but he forces the words out. “You love him, don’t you?”
Paul goes immediately stiff, and then his hands are moving again, clearly slipping out from under his control. They wind into each other in front of him, then dance fluttery around his face before settling in to comb repeatedly through his hair, tugging anxiously at the loose strands near his ears. “I don’t know what you mean by that.” His voice is high. He lets out a weak laugh, but it’s not at all convincing.
George can’t help himself, his resolve to be kind about this dissipates and he levels Paul with a flat, unimpressed look and holds it until he goes red.
“You know the answer,” he finally grinds out.
George doesn’t feel particularly satisfied with that – if he can’t even say it to him, how could he possibly say it to John? – but he allows it for the moment. “He loves you,” he declares. He’s quiet enough that there’s no way that anyone other than Paul could hear, but he’s never heard himself speak with such conviction. “He loves you, and he’s so afraid that he’s going to lose you somehow because of it. Paul, you can’t see it the way I can, he’s tearing himself apart over it. He’s so scared.”
“No, that’s not – he’s John. He’s not that scared, he can’t be. I mean, why would he be, anyway, he knows that I’ll never want to be without him.” Paul bites his lip hard as soon as he finishes speaking, flushing even more. Obviously embarrassed to have admitted to anything at all.
George takes a deep breath. “Paul. You can’t ever leave him.”
“I wouldn’t!” He sounds genuinely appalled at the idea. “George, you don’t really think that I ever would, do you?”
“You have to be careful, Paul, I mean, if something happened to you, we’d lose him too. He –” he lowers his voice even more than he already has, whispering – “he needs you.”
“Bloody hell, it’s like you believe there’s some sort of curse too. I’m not going to die. And I’m not going to leave. Alright?”
“You need to convince him of that. You need to tell him.”
Paul still looks uncertain, though. “I can’t just say that, Christ, you don’t understand. Not to John. He doesn’t – not the way you’re saying it, George.” He falters, then continues, oddly shy. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
George casts his eyes up at the ceiling, exasperated. Paul is making this exceedingly difficult on him. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to be so blunt about it. “Tell him you’re in love with him, Paul.”
Paul goes completely still and closes his eyes. George waits, gives him a moment, but he remains motionless. For a second he half wonders if he’s broken him, and reaches out to rest his hand on Paul’s arm. He flinches away, a quick reflexive movement, bringing his hands up towards his face like he – like he expects George to hit him.
“Paul,” he breathes, stunned, something sinking heavy into his stomach. He’s never really thought of him as young before – Paul’s made sure of that, with the way he’s always made it so clear how incredibly mature he thinks he is compared to George. Now, though, he suddenly seems very, very young indeed, and George feels something protective and gentle surge into his chest. “Paul,” he repeats, and drags him into a hug.
Paul only hesitates a moment before curling his arms around George and hugging him back, squeezing him tightly enough that it hurts a bit. “Thanks,” he mutters when he pulls back, face still bright red.
There’s a moment of silence, and Paul is flustered but so obviously relieved, so pleased, so appreciative. George doesn’t think he deserves it, not really - surely any reasonable person would act the same way as he had.
“Wouldn’t it be better not to acknowledge it?” Paul asks quietly after a few seconds have passed. “I mean, we can’t…” Paul trails off, looking lost.
“You can,” George tell him. “He feels the same way.”
Paul draws in a slow breath. “Okay. Okay.” He glances back at the door behind him, the room he’s sharing with John, and George can see a physical change in him – a setting of his shoulders, a straightening of his back – as he steels his resolve. “Goodnight, Georgie.”
Just as Paul is reaching for the door handle, George finds himself calling after him. He hadn’t planned to, but he’s overtaken by the sudden urge to add one last thing. “Take care of him,” he whispers, when Paul glances back at him over his shoulder. A reluctant smile tugs up the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying to look irritated but is too pleased to really pull it off quite right. He inclines his head back at George, acknowledging, and then slips into the room, closing the door behind him.
Pete’s already rolled over asleep in his bed by the time George heads into their room, and he pushes away the familiar vague sense of irritation with him – he’s not one of them, really, he’s completely oblivious to their dynamics and to everything going on around him. They need to be rid of him, they all know it. Hopefully his replacement will be someone that George can actually talk to – he would love to rant to someone right about now. Instead, he just changes and tucks himself into bed as well. He allows himself to indulge in a brief sense of satisfaction. He’d gotten it done.
For a few minutes he strains his ears listening for voices through the wall, but he can’t hear anything and soon enough a few reasons why he maybe shouldn’t listen anyway occur to him. After that, he squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself drift off to sleep.
When John and Paul walk in for breakfast the next morning, George can tell right away that they’ve talked. There’s not even a second of doubt. It’s not like they’re kissing on the mouth or holding hands or anything like that. He can just feel it in the air, a tension that he’d grown so used to that he no longer noticed it, finally eased.
They sway into each other, elbows bumping with every step, heads tilted in. When they sit at the table, Paul flops down barely an inch shy of being in John’s lap. They’re both grinning. Paul notices him looking and bites his lip, trying to hide it but failing miserably. His face looks almost aglow with it, his eyes bright. John doesn’t notice anything at all, too busy staring at Paul with a disgustingly soppy look on his face.
George is almost surprised by how thrilled he is by it, how relieved he feels. It’s like he can breathe properly around them for the first time that he can remember – he hadn’t even realized just how much their unresolved tension had been choking him.
They can’t stop touching each other as they eat – just small, subtle things, a tap on the forearm, a playful shove. John whispers something into Paul’s ear and they both giggle like schoolgirls. George doesn’t feel as irritated at being left out as he usually does – at least there’s a good reason for them to be off in their own little bubble for once. Then Paul twists a little bit into John and he leans in until their lips catch in a kiss so quick that it would almost look like an accident if George didn’t know any better.
Seeming to suddenly remember themselves at the exact same time, John and Paul both belatedly cast surreptitious glances around to check that they’re not being watched. Luckily, Brian’s booked them a private room and is off making a call, so it’s only Pete who they have to worry about – and he unsurprisingly isn’t paying them any attention at all and didn’t notice a thing.
John’s gaze lands on George and he fixes him with a piercing look, eyes narrowing into a challenge. George snorts and shakes his head with a smirk. Paul apparently hadn’t communicated to John that George was the one who convinced him to actually be honest with him. John seems to falter, and George lets his smirk soften into something gentler and more genuine. “It’s alright, John. I’m with you.” He shares a quick glance with Paul and feels any remaining doubts fade away at the certainty that he can see in him. “We’re with you. Not going anywhere.”
“Not going anywhere. Not leaving.” Paul presses his shoulder up against John’s as he speaks, and he smiles in a way that seems almost shy, an expression that George doesn’t think he’s ever seen on John before.
“Huh?” asks Pete, finally looking up from his eggs.
“Nothing,” Paul snaps while George and John roll their eyes in unison, and then the three of them all burst into laughter.