Chapter Text

PRELUDE

Bob looked up to the sky when he smoked. 

The smoke billowed around him in a foggy haze, just smoky enough to obscure his vision partly while allowing the stars to peak in overhead. He was advised not to smoke, ironically. By Sara, by his doctor, by the people around him. But it was his only sense of solace when his hip hurt like hell. 

And he would do so at night. Late when no one could ever possibly see him. Late when his wife wouldn't notice him slip out, pregnant with another child. Late when the world felt quiet, the chirp of cicadas being the only natural noise the surrounding area could muster.

It's night over here, over there in London it was the raking day.

There, George Harrison was just about to get himself married.

Stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, polluting said air with his puffs of smoke. 

He was anxious about the wedding. He loved Pattie with all his heart, but Lord knows how he would never stay so consistently loyal. He cursed himself under his breath for his foolishness. Like a dog, he wagged his tail at every girl who'd come his way, yet he would remiss ever disappointing Pattie.

But life was hard. Life was hard when everyone had a horribly large magnifying glass narrowed down at your ugly face and everyone could see the slightest stray crumb of cake on your shirt, or a stain of God knows what down on your pants. 

And for that moment, for that small moment. 

Before Bob eventually grew tired, Before George readied for the reception,

They smoke their cigarettes at the very same time. Tasting the smoke on their teeth at the very same moment, from two comfortable corners of the world, so far yet so in sync..

Thinking of each other as they licked the taste off their mouths. 

1

Every Boy You've Seen In Every Movie

At a cafe.

Somewhere in Woodstock, New York.

Sometime in the sixties.

Bob played chess, alone, in a chair.

Switching seats every now and then, he muttered each move under his breath as if he were a different person.

Switching to black, 

“Knight to E5” He smugly said, taking away a bishop from the white side.

Switching to the white side,

Bob looked down at the board, then up at the empty space in the chair in front of him. “Should've known that.” He sighed. “Queen to… 1A. I mean– A1.” He moved hesitantly.

This charade would go on forever if it could. He was rather good at chess. Or at least that's what he told himself. Truth is, he hasn't played since he was younger, back in Greenwich. Then, he'd wait excitedly for the next eager schmuck to challenge him, sit down across from him, when he'd eventually beat them and take all the money allotted from the bets to get himself a coffee and start the game all over again.

Now, no one paid him any mind in Woodstock. It was unlike the West Village. Sure, they sold his records in the stores, but no one seemed concerned enough to double take when he'd pass them by. He felt almost cartoonist, in a big trenchcoat, hat, and sunglasses. And by all means, he would sit there; in public, comfortably— no one searching for an autograph, no mindless culture zombies chasing him for an interview, no upset middle aged war veteran coming for him and shouting up and down at him just to get a rise.

Nobody knew him. 

Sometimes he wished somebody did. Not at all like they did back then, but at least somebody. A familiar face that would walk into his life again and make him feel a lot less like an alien and more like a hermit by choice (which was kind of what he was going for). Somebody besides his family. His wife, who he constantly left at home with the children while he lollygagged around town doing odd errands just to get out of bed. 

But no one came forward to play any chess. 

Bob rolled up his board and took his game to the fountain. There he watched the birds fly past as he read the newspaper. Something about the Beatles.

The run ins he had back in the days with the Beatles in the 60s brought back memories, alright. If not terrible memories, instances where he and the Fab Four would party at his hotel, he and John in particular really hammed it up back at the Chelsea Hotel. Maybe too much. But there was never “too much” when you were young and just months ago, kissed by adoration and fame.

Bob didn't like when the past would intrude on his regular day to day thoughts like this. He shook himself out of it.

Besides the birds and the trees, Bob noticed the people, particularly an old couple. They smiled and giggled, feeding the ducks and remarking grossly concerned about how fat they've been getting. “People complaining about what they're doing…” Said Bob, the couple beside him couldn't hear him, preoccupied with feeding the ducks some more.

He had to get some groceries. After that he stopped by the flower shop to get, well, flowers, for his wife, Sara. 

She was a simple girl. She loved her tarot cards and all that mystification. Bob never had his eyes open to that sort of thing but she told him he just needed to open his third one and he'd get it. In response, Bob would say he's only ever had two eyes but when the third one comes up, he'll run to her right away.

But, simple as she was, she was very particular. Not too particular, but particular enough to have specific preferences on just about every possible thing you can get. For starters, she loves sage green and lavender, and she'll only take tea if there's a slice of lemon in it. And she loves to crochet, but don't get her yarn that's way too thin, otherwise it'll throw her off entirely. Bob still doesn't know what exact measurement of wine she wants and how he can give her that, so instead he's getting her tulips: only the ones that are her favorite shade of purple of course.

With plans to be alone with his wife, kids away on some camping trip with friends, he and Sara could finally have that time to themselves they both wanted so much since having children. Bob excitedly thought of what was waiting for him at home the whole way back: A nice cooked meal, Sara surely would have the mood lighting on instead of the big overhead light, that premium coffee as an appetizer and that special wine they'd saved for this day afterwards; a quiet, perfect day.

You can imagine his shock when he comes home to laughter.

His wife, Sara, with a guest.

Bob grumbled under his breath. Opening the door loudly as he could to get the most attention. “Sara?” He shouted, not loud enough for her to notice based on the unwavering giggling and chatting.

Bob struggled to open the door on his own with the groceries taking up both his hands. Usually his wife would help him but clearly she was occupied.

He made his way to the living room. There, he saw Sara's clear figure. Her divine shape, her long, dark hair, her soft eyes, accompanied by another figure. Brown hair, akin to hazelnut spread, sprawling down to their shoulders. They were frail and skinny all the same, and their voice was soft and lyrical when they laughed. Slightly familiar but Bob wasn't too sure.

“Oh! Well hiya, Bobby.” Sara raised an eyebrow. Swiftly she got up, “Excuse me, he's here now, I just need to help him with the groceries.”

“Where do I drop these??” Bob impatiently groaned.

“The kitchen. For now. I can't put all this away with a guest waiting in the next room!...” Sara looked Bob up and down. “And I can see you took a detour.” 

“Well— There's flowers. Flowers for you. In the vase at the entrance.”

Sara's eyes widened softly, pleasantly surprised. Usually Bob was quite quick with these trips. “Well I'll be sure to check them out later then. But for now, we have a guest.” 

“Who is this guest anyways?”

“Bob!” Said a voice behind the couple.

Bob turned. 

He turned to see George standing in his kitchen.

George looked so different. 

For one he wasn't wearing a shabby suit, in fact, he was wearing an assortment of colors, he looked good in this pseudo hippie getup. Besides that, his hair was longer - and he was one of the rare people that actually fit that shaggy long look. And he'd been growing a mustache out; he looked like a movie star. But besides that, it seemed like his whole disposition changed. He seemed eager, smiley and excited to be there. Much unlike the times in the past when Bob stayed in the Chelsea; George making conversation but usually reserving his energy, unlike Ringo and John and Paul. Or when they would get high together. Usually George giggled and chuckled, mostly to himself. Bob didn't remember much from when he'd get high either. But he always remembered George being too starstruck and in awe to make any proper conversation outside of simple small talk.

“It's me! George!”

“I can tell.” Bob said, a smile spread across his face. “For a second there I thought you were a girl, man.”

George laughed awkwardly. So did Sara. 

“What are you doing here!” Bob exclaimed.

“Just… around town.” 

“Around Nowhereville in Woodstock? Are you outta your mind?” Said Bob, “What are you doing here really?”

“Just visiting New York, y'know.” George sang. “It's not like I have anything else on my itinerary. Heard you were around the neighborhood too, but that's besides the point.”

“Well…” Said Bob, examining each corner of George from head to toe, “You sure look groovy.”

“Thank you!” George batted his eyes in a playful expression. “I wanted to try something new, you know…”

Silence filled the room.

“My house is too messy for pop royalty, such as you, my friend.” Bob shrugged. “Wanna take this outside?” He glanced at Sara. “Just the two of us?”

George looked confused. Confused and unsure in a way Bob had never seen him before. Perhaps it was the way Bob said it, because he never was an accommodating houseguest.

George blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Sara nodded. Bob figured she must've known what he was up to. 

Slowly George followed him out.

“If you're going to ask me about what I think you are, make it quick because I can only give you a quick answer.”

“A quick answer? What would that be?”

“Well you'll just have to say what's on my mind first.” George tilted his head. Bob should've known. There was always an ulterior motive to a visit from a Beatle.

“If you're going to be stubborn about it, I'll ask you this first - how'd you know where I was? Where I am… it's not known to the public. Who told you?”

George hummed, but had no answer.

“Hey man, if you're here to annoy me then I'll have you know I get plenty of that. Just the other day a lunatic barged in ‘ere— stealing my trash for a sorta article or sum thing.” 

“I don't want to annoy you.” George shrugged. “I want you to take me in.”

“What?”

He said, hands behind his back. “I need to take my mind off things.”

“What things?”

“Oh. You know.” George waved his hand dismissively at the thought. “Stupid love things.”

Chapter Text

 2

The Importance Of Timing When Building A Spaceship

“Wow. The ceiling is huge. Huge and far away. You don't really notice how… how huge and far away it is, frankly. Until you're on the floor like this.” George smiled. He knew he was dopey, slurring while he spoke. 

Maybe he'd drank too much. Drinking and substances should never, ever match. Yet there he was: lying with his eyes wide, beside a young Bob Dylan. High, unbothered, and certainly not dry. His mouth could foam up and he could shrivel up and die right there: he'd still be happy.

With the boys in the band, the air was much more different. You could still hear them hanging around faintly outside the room, in the living room space. Just as intoxicated as the two in their intimacy. They fooled around and smoked and sang as much as he and Bob did then, but with Eppy on their back and the world at their feet, it was hard to keep up an image.

Here, however, the image fell apart. Bob didn't say much, at least not much that was intelligible, but George knew he was there. For all that was worth it, George was there. He was really there. 

He felt fuzzy and sleepy yet awake and so active. His thoughts raced at a hundred miles an hour, yet he felt so still and in place at the same time. Like he was everywhere and nowhere and he was fine with that.

“Where'd you get this stuff from anyways?” George turned slowly to Bob, lying beside him on the dirty hotel floor.

“Hm.” Bob stopped. “I dunno man. I… Get it from…”

“Oh shit! You got it from a bloke you found on the street and and— guess what? He laced it. Which is why I've never felt this way before.”

Bob laughed. George wasn't joking.

“Oh, don't chuckle and say I'm funny…” George sloppily threw his arm across his face. “No one ever takes me seriously. Not Paul… Not Eppy… Not John, eugh, though he thinks it….” 

“But I'm serious…” George continued, sighing. “I want to be serious. My songs are serious.”

“Harrisongs.”

“And they just push them off to the side. What do they care? They don't care, they don't care if I've got muck on me blazer, they don't care if I'm dead tomorrow, they don't care!” George shouted. “Did… did you say Harrisongs?”

“I heard John callin' em that. Just earlier as I passed their way.”

“That's just a thing they made up.” George muttered. He clicked at his tongue. The wine left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Like they care anyways. Those “Harrisongs”. No one's ever heard those “Harrisongs.” Not if Macca and John keep up the ass kissing. And– you know I love them, you know. Like the songs and the boys, they're basically my blood brothers. It's just… I think I love them way more than they love me and it stresses me out.”

“But that's so cute, is it not? Harrisongs. I should have a name for my songs, man…”

“Hm… Dylansongs.”

“Not good.” 

“You've got a good ditty in you. Bob Ditties?”

Bob snorted. “Well that just sounds too much like titties!”

George laughed. “Fuck, you're right! Hmm….” George paused.

“It's cute though. You know, you're awfully cute, yourself, George.”

George's eyes widened softly. “No I'm not.”

“Yes you are.”

George smiled, his face feeling hot and red “Well… maybe I am… But it's not like I'm newborn baby cute.” 

“Well nobody's newborn baby cute… not even… newborn… babies.”

“Did you hear about the astronauts?” George turned to Bob. “It's said they want to go to the moon… I mean it's a very amazing thing…”

“Everyone and their mama heard of that now, man.” Bob rolled his eyes.

“I wonder what it takes to build something like that…”

“Like what?”

“Like a spaceship.” George answered. It felt weird to talk in this state. Like words were just pouring out of his being, like he couldn't hide anything if he tried. George thought if the government was more open to it, this would make a great interrogation method.

“Oh. Figures.” Bob scratched his eyes profusely, “Figure… It would prolly take a hand or two…. Somethin’ that can propel you up t’ the sky like that must take a long damn time t’ get t’ making.”  

“Well. Despite the journey it must've taken to get to it...It must feel so good to be up in the sky that high.” George sighed. “Soaking in the blue of it all. It must look so wonderful there from up above.” 

George couldn't help but continuously stare. “You know… your eyes are like the sky themselves. All blue.” The longer he stared into Bob, the farther Bob's direct gaze strayed away from his own. Even when he wasn't high Bob always seemed to be on another plane of existence, perhaps that's where he got all the words to his songs.

Forlorn… and longing…

George drew nearer and nearer.

Bob coughed, he took another hit off the joint. “You're eyes aren't too shabby yourself… You're just… everything right now.” 

“I am?”

“In a way… yeah.”

George itched for touch. For the first time, in the whole time, he'd ever been there… In any time they'd ever crossed paths for that matter, George felt Bob. He felt his stare. He stared back at him, with those icy blue eyes George has always admired, except they weren't cold and unloving; they were gentle, passionate. Unlike anything he'd ever seen from the man.

And then… like he couldn't control his lips or his hands from jerking and moving, he couldn't stop his body growing closer and closer to Bob. Closer into a kiss. 

A long kiss. 

He could've pushed away. Bob could've moved away and told him to back off, told him to leave and never return to show his face again— but he didn't. In fact, Bob kissed so passionately, and George couldn't even pinch himself to prove he was dreaming. 

Jazz played slow, melancholic and soothing in the background, the way it would in a dream. One that would have you wake up, fuzzy of the slightest memory of it, though the thought of it, lingering afterwards for the rest of the day. And it was a song George wasn't familiar with. It could've been Ella Fitzgerald, it could've been Nina Simone: Either way, that wouldn't matter. Nothing mattered but this to the two, making out on the floor.

Might as well have been a dream. The Beatle remembers. If George could fathom to guess ever kissing one of his biggest idols, it would be in his wildest imagination. Or a wet dream he'd keep from everyone but himself. Not there, on a random Sunday night, when preachers were at church and the world slept soundly.

George pulled away. He caressed Bob's curls gently, stopping himself midway. “I have a girlfriend, you know.”

“Well frankly, I don't have a girlfriend.” Bob tilted his head. “She just left me. For bigger things I hope.”

George's attention turned to the albums in the corner. Bob had a copy of each and every one of his albums, a special one for his own listening pleasure. Though Bob let them collect dust at the side of the crummy hotel room they laid in together, he was never one to admire his own voice. 

Still, George examined each cover before landing on the familiar faces on the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, a personal favorite of George's, and what brought Dylan to mainstream game in the first place. Over the thick cloud of dust, George saw Bob, cheekily walking through the streets with a girl over his hand. A prettier girl than George would ever be.

“That's her?”

“Hm?”

“Her.” George pointed at the album. 

Bob smirked. “Heh. Yeah. Suze was her name. Suze Rotolo. Not like her name matters to me anymore anyways.” 

“Suze…” In orange highlighter, the ink, of which was barely seen, bathed in the moonlight and nothing else, was a number. Perhaps hers, based on how girly and squiggly it was.

George got up, wobbly with the alcohol and drugs in his system, and he sauntered to the album, wiping the dust off and reading the number:

0936 - 967 - 121

“This is her number?” George turned to Bob. Bob still laid on the floor. He didn't give an answer; maybe he was sleeping.

George stretched, then he got to the phone, and put each number through the rotary. Sure enough, the number was familiar to the phone, and a girl answered right away.

“Oh, Suze?” George slurred.

“Hey.” Bob's ears perked up. “Don't fucking try anything, man!” 

Maybe George wasn't in his right mind that day. He still didn't know why he did it.

“Suze..!!!” George sang. “It's me. George Harrison. Of the… haha! Of the Beatles! Come over and bring all your sexy Beatlemania friends!”

A woman groaned over the phone. “Oh Bob, is this some kind of joke?” 

“No, no! It really is me!” George laughed. “You never know how much I really love you…!” He jokingly sang.

Immediately the girls behind Suze squealed with delight. “Oh alright. But if you're pulling my leg, I'll leave right away!” 

“George, what the fuck man?!” Bob groaned. George was surprised to see Bob right behind him, infuriated. 

George burst out in laughter. He didn't know why he did that. “I'm sorry, okay?! I just needed a woman after all that…” George stopped himself. He always stopped himself when he felt like what he was saying wasn’t true.

“So what?” Bob said, hands on his hips. “She's coming?” 

The bell rings. 

“She's here?” Bob's eyes widened. “What about the other Beatles??”

George forgot about that. 

Bob rubbed the temples of his forehead like he was having a splitting headache.

Swiftly, he and George rushed to the living room, only to see John, Paul, and Ringo: sandwiched between three very excited young girls.

“HELLO HELLO HELLO!” John shouted. “These must be the prettiest intruders we've ever gotten, ey Paul?”

“Precisely, John, my good friend. I'm assuming these are your lady friends, Bob?” 

“Well–”

“Oh that doesn't matter. Let's just have fun with it!” Ringo exclaimed.

Bob was quickly pulled down by another woman, still frazzled and confused, his eyes still looking for Suze, who didn't seem to be there yet. 

George laughed, excusing himself back into the room. It's not like any of the women there objected. 

“So now it's just me.” He said to himself, drinking the last bit of alcohol left in the bottle by the table.

He felt his face; wet.

George buried his face in his hands, crying. Nobody could hear him from the happy ruckus outside. 

He didn't know why he was crying that way. He didn't know why he did anything he did anymore.

Alone with the face of Bob, left engraved in his mind after they kissed so passionately, George fell asleep.

And he's been awake ever since.

Chapter Text

3

unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed 

Bob and George hugged. Hugged in an awkward sideways move that Bob was happy no one else was there to see. 

He felt something thud against his leg. Looking down, he noticed it: Adorned in Indian dreamcatchers and flowers was a custom thread leather brown suitcase. And it was big.

Bob's eyes widened. “Hey man, how long are you intending on staying here??”

George noticed his shock. He brushed his hair behind his ears and laughed it off, “Oh. I just… I just over pack.”

“Good.” Said Bob, as coldly as he could. “Because I don't really like when visitors come over.”

“Neither do I.” Said George, matter of factly, “Visiting on the other hand?”

______

A cup of Darjeeling, hot, with smoke still billowing from the cup. George gulped it up. And Bob watched him take every single sip.

Sara leaned in close to him, Bob still not breaking the gaze he cast over George. “When did he say he was leaving?”

“He hasn't told me yet.”

“Or why is he even here in the first place?” Sara questioned, quieter.

“He hasn't told me anything.” 

“I can hear you two.” Bob watched George take a dainty sip from his cup of tea. “For the record, I won't take too long. Maybe…” He stopped mid sentence.

Maybe I should just ignore him. Bob grimaced. “Say, Sara, when are you leaving to join the kids?” 

“Tomorrow. Seeing as today was…” Sara gestured to George, not looking up from his tea.

“D’you mind if I could have any biscuits with these?”

“Oh– sure!” Sara grinned awkwardly, shuffling in a drawer, she took a tin of cookies out from the pantry. Decorated with myrtles and oleander and colorful Junipers. “Bob and I have tried our luck but we can't find one the kids love more.”

George drops his teacup and reads the cover of the intricate, delicate tin. “Might as well call them brother and sister. I love these.” Said George, a sharp smile slowly spreading across his face.

“You're in luck then.” Bob crossed his arms. “Just don't finish those.”

“Oh, Bob, honey, that's a full tin. I don't think he would be able to, even if he tried! I mean, with that figure.”

“Oh you'd be surprised.” George winked. “You have a lovely wife, Bob.”

“You have a lovely wife too.” 

George stopped in his tracks. “No…” He chuckled weakly, “No. Me and Pattie aren't married yet.”

“Surely you have some plans to settle down though, yes?” Sara smiled.

“We’ve been thinking, yanno. La di da... It's crossed our minds… Plenty of times, her especially.” George sipped his tea again, “She wants children you know. I love Pattie.”

“Do you like the tea?”

“Mm.” George nodded. “I do. Reminds me of a tea I had in India…”

Bob smirked. “That's the same one you gave us back then.”

“Hah! Really?” George looks down at his tea in amusement, then at the leaves still at the bottom of his cup, “What, Kashmiri?”

“No, no, it's Darjeeling!” Sara giggled. 

“Oh, I love Darjeeling! It's my favorite out of all the teas I got to try out there. You know, the Indians did it first. First and better. We Brits just stole it from them when we colonized any bloody piece of land with people on it.” George chuckled to himself.

“Oh– See?? It's good, I'm telling you!” Said Sara, nudging Bob, “Bob hates it, I'm practically the only one who drinks it around here!”

“Really?” Said George, genuinely surprised.

And now Bob felt bad. “I don't hate it.” Bob muttered. “I just would rather… not drink it.”

George and Sara laughed. 

“Hey… George?” 

“Uh huh?”

“Could I just..? Take you to the side for a moment?” Bob said with a certain seriousness George hasn't observed from him before.

George skipped behind him. “This is the second time you've called me to the side.”

“And it's gonna be the last, all right!” Bob snapped. “You know, I reserved this day for me and my wife, man. She's going out with our kids to her mom's place, out back a couple states from here!” He explained with bark in every syllable. “We intended to have some time alone. Because you know, after having kids, it's hard to have some time alone, George.”

“...It's hard to find some time alone as a Beatle, too.” George shrugged. 

“Don't play the Beatle card.”

“I hate to play the Beatle card!” George shrugged defensively. “I'd rather kill meself than use the Beatle card! But I-I mean, now I'd reckon it's pretty relevant!”

“Whatever, man.” 

“Okay. You know why I'm really here.” George put his hands on his hips. 

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“Oh, you–! To get away from it all! Like you ‘ave!” George said, his eyes full of wonder. “And I figured… Yanno… That you'd help me.” He shrugged. “I mean, I know you never liked the ‘public eye’ an’ all that. So I thought… You'd let me stay here. For a day. Or two. Maybe a week if you're more lenient.” George ended with a sheepish look on his face.

Bob paused. “Oh Lord…” He needed to rub his temples from the mental gymnastics he was doing to make this all make sense. “Look at you, you're being ridiculous!”

“Can’t I just run away for a few weeks to live like a normal man and go back to that shiny porcelain pedestal again when I've made up my mind?!”

“So— so what are you doing? What are you achieving with you being here?” Bob questioned, raising his voice, “Running to my house– to what– to make me your scapegoat?”

“I–”

“Regardless of status, I'm sure the penalty for kidnapping a Beatle must be terrible.” 

George laughed, “You're not kidnapping me! Besides, no one knows I slipped away like this.”

“Well to the public I'm kidnapping you! Nobody knows you're here?!” Bob facepalmed. “Listen… And… I didn't run away. I got… into a pretty bad accident.”

George's expression softened. “Like how bad?”

Suddenly Sara came into the room. “Did I hear screaming? What's happening?”

“Oh. Haha. Nothing.” George said, a cheeky look on his face.

“Yeah. Nothing. George was just leaving.” Bob growled.

George frowned. “If that's how it's gonna be, at least tell me where I could stay for the night.”

“Hm. I think we've got a manger in the back.” 

“Very funny.”

George groaned. He made his way out, quick with his boots. Bob could've sworn he was trailing multicolored glitter out of the house with him.

It bugged Bob when he saw George waiting out front for a cab to pass by. Because he knew George wouldn't be getting any cabs at this hour, meaning he'd have to drive George out to a hotel.

Sara picked up the biscuit tin, turning it upside down: “Huh. It's empty.”

“...There probably weren't many in there to begin with.” Bob said, giving George the benefit of the doubt. Bob could still see him out his window, looking for a cab.

“You know you have to drive him.”

“I don't want to drive.” Bob lied. 

“You have to.” Sara groaned, “As much as I don't want you to get on that damn motorcycle again. I can't let him wait there forever.”

Bob remembered the crash. He remembered being rushed to the hospital. The needles they inserted in his back, over and over and over. How he hated needles.

Sara looked at Bob, then back out at George. George caught her looking, giving a playful, cartoonish wave back. “Either that, or we let him stay the night, and he and I will take a taxi together to the mainland.”

Bob truly grasped the distance George must've taken to seek him out. It did take that long to get here from New York, New York, where the closest airport was that'd take him directly home to Liverpool. “But— we can't let him stay here!”

“And why is that?”

“I just…” Bob said, his tone slowly lowering, “I thought the rest of the day was gonna be for us, is all.” 

“This is so uncharacteristically inhospitable of you.” Sara kissed Bob on the cheek. “He's your friend.”

“Something like it.”

“We can just send him right on his way tomorrow.” 

“Well… By the looks of him…” Said Bob, looking down at George's huge suitcase from the window. He cringed, it was practically weighing him down. 

“Bob.” Sara laughed. “Since when did you not like a visit from George?? Long as I can remember, you loved your visits with the Beatles.” She paused. “Unless something happened between you which if that is the case I swear I'll —”

“No, nothing happened.” Suddenly a jolt of pain shot up from Bob's back. “AGH!” He held onto a chair before he could fall.

“Bob??”

“It's alright… I just…” He winced. “It's not unlike the other times. I'm fine… I'm fine…”

He took a breather for a moment. 

Now Bob just felt bad. 

“Sara…”

“Yes?”

“Call… Call George back in here.” He said, clutching his hip, “I don't want him to get all sweaty in that nice outfit of his.”

Chapter Text

4

(This Bird Has Flown)

Sara and George laughed amongst themselves as they came back into the house. Oddly enough, Bob straightened himself out at the dining room table. He'd never felt the need to make himself look proper for anyone before, besides the women in his life. 

Just as he heard them coming, he took a sip of the Darjeeling, the one George had been drinking all evening - he still hated the taste. Much too herbaceous to ever be enjoyable for him.

Now finally, they arrived. George and Sara talking about life. All while Bob discreetly clicked the taste of the Darjeeling out of his mouth with his tongue.

“God, I'm famished.” George shrugged. “Did you folks have dinner yet?”

Sara looked at Bob. “Yes, actually…”

“You didn't eat anything before you left for Woodstock??” Bob exclaimed, all bewildered.

“I can see why he downed those cookies so quickly.” Said Sara, nudging Bob in secret. 

“Ah, well, nevermind then.” George caroled in a singsong-y tone. “I'll just get something to eat nearby. Is there an inn I can check into?”

Oh. 

Bob thought. “Didn't you want to stay with us?”

George blinked, confused. “Well— yes. But if it's any inconvenience to you, I'll just get a room for myself.” He shrugged. “You know! La di da.”

Bob tsk’ed, disheartened. “Well, it's pretty late out, you know…”

“But didn't you want this?” Sara asked, confused.

“I mean… Well, I don't know what I want.” Bob answered bluntly. “Come on. I'll take you to the nearest town.”

_______

The engine revved. Bob looked uneasy. Maybe he wasn't ready to go out on the road with another person yet.

“I changed my mind.” Bob muttered. “Let's just take the truck. And it's better that way. Easier to… carry all your things.”

“Oh… Alright. Anything is good.” George nodded.

Now George sat beside Bob in the truck, in the passenger seat, light as a feather with no clunky suitcase trailing behind him. “I never expected New York could look like this.” He smiled. “It's quaint.”

“Yeah.” Said Bob. “It's nice.”

The ride going into town was quiet. George didn't talk much, Bob noticed he would ever so slowly drift off to sleep now and then, leaning on the passenger side window. When they'd pass through a brush, or a bump on the road, he'd be startled awake. 

Bob didn't know why he was feeling the way he felt. George wasn't staying over. Just now, it felt like all his efforts to be open-minded to the fact were thrown out the window. 

Finally they arrived at a suitable inn. With a colorful roof and a nice little pinstripe awning. Bob almost didn't want to wake George with how soundly he was sleeping. Sometimes Bob would look at people as they slept and wonder what they dreamt of. As for George, he hoped it wasn't anything sad; girls and whiskey, or something.

“George.” Bob quietly nudged the Beatle.

Slowly, he stretched and got up. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned to Bob, with an expression like he'd forgotten where he'd fallen asleep at. “Oh. Hello Bob.” He lulled. “We must be here now, yes?”

Bob nodded, “I'll help you with your stuff.”

_____

George's room wasn't too bad. It was spacious for what it was, and the dark wood on all the floors complimented each little ornate piece of furniture, from the fluffy green bed, to the oakwood desk right next to it. 

George smiled. “You could stay for a while.” 

“No, it's late out—”

“I insist.” George bowed, “Sit anywhere.”

Bob looked for a chair; only to realize there was no chair, but a fluffy rug in the middle of the room.

Bob sat on the floor awkwardly. “No, it's fine!” George beckoned. “Sit next to me!” He chuckled slightly.

And they sat. They sat for a horribly awkward amount of time.

“You know, this whole visit to the Americas, I know it's awfully exciting for you but to me… it's… it's discountenancing.”

“Discountenancing?” George tilted his head. “I thought you looked happy to see me.”

Bob looked down at the dry wood floor. Suddenly thunder boomed outside their house. Roaring like the sound of a thousand missiles, rain started pouring so sudden, and so fast. Bob flinched, but quickly brushed it off.

“Rain.” Bob grumbled. 

George raised an eyebrow. “You can stay here if you'd like.”

“Ah I see what's happenin' - now the tables have turned.”

George chuckled sweetly, even his laugh was laced with the lyrical Scouse accent he spoke with so generously. “Go on, I'll find another way.” 

George started walking into the bathroom.

Bob paused. “I'm— you're not letting me take the bed, are you?” 

“Hm.” said George, peeking slightly from the bathroom door. “If you don't want it, I'll have it alllll to myself then. And I'll get all comfy and warm… and you, yeah, you can stay on the floor, la di da, la di doo…” Bob could see George wave it off from the bathroom. He peeped his head out from the shower, as the crummy water from the faucet ran weakly behind him, “It's not like us Brits are used to the cold weather— and your paisley figure crumples into any jacket you've got on in even the slightest weather.”

“Oh, come on, man! That's not true!”

“Oh really??” Said George, suddenly out of the shower. Quickly he takes some clothes, remarking about how chilly it is under his breath, and rushing back out in a comfier sweatshirt.

Then the Beatle slouches down exaggeratedly, with a cartoonish grumpy expression on his face, trudging around the room and trailing a lovely jasmine shampoo scent as he waltzes around the room.

“Oh, what's this now?” Bob facepalmed, hiding a stifled giggle with his hand. 

“What? This isn't you?” Said George, continuing to make droopy, bounding steps all around the room. “Huh?”

“Eh, I'm so cold!” He said in a hoagy Dylan imitation. “Like a rolling stoone!”

Proud, George plops himself on the bed next to a bewildered Dylan. “So? How'd I do?” He batted his eyes. “I was good right?”

“I'm… I'm speechless.” Bob burst out laughing. “That's not what I sound like at all! In– in what world do I sound like that ever?!”

George giggled. “Moral of the story: I'll slink onto the floor. There's a spare mattress after all.” He insisted, slowly sliding himself onto the ground. 

“You're so weird man.” Bob shook his head. “Is this how you're all like in Liverpool?”

“Oh, no. Just me.” George rolled his eyes, “Just about everyone in England, front and back, are just the drowsiest, gloomiest people you'll ever bloody meet; it's exhausting.”

“Speaking of exhaust, I'm just about kipped out.” Bob yawned. “It's nearly two in the morning.”

“But we can't tell.”

“There's no clocks in here.”

George laughed, still Bob noticed how tired he appeared. It was best for the two to try to get some shut eye for now. The rain continued on behind them, and eventually until the two drifted off to bed. 

Not before Bob slumbered first. Resting on an arm as he snored.

George looked at him fondly as he slept. Unfortunately for him, it would be another sleepless night. This time, however, he wasn't really bothered.

Chapter Text

5

New York Is A Boy From Liverpool

By the time they arrived back at the house, after checking out of that crummy hotel and traveling through many muddy puddles on the road, Bob had guessed before they even entered: Sara had already left for New York.

“Figures.” Said Bob.

“Now I'm guilty.” George sighed. “You think she waited for me till she couldn't any longer?”

“No…” Bob shrugged. “Sara probably felt like you were gonna stay for longer anyways. She has that psychic ability of hers.” 

“And how could you tell she left now anyways?”

“There's not a whisper of odd laughter around here.” Bob answered, hands in his pockets. “I can always hear her giggling to herself. Even in the driveway.”

“That's a good sign you really love each other, huh?...” George looked away. He let his eyes wander. He didn't know when to tell Bob about what happened that night at the Chelsea, but he wanted to. It was exhausting to hide things from someone as they stood right beside you. 

Suddenly, his eyes landed on an odd track of dirt. Piled high and propped up, but with no seeds in the soil. “Hey…” Said George, “Why haven't you—?”

“Oh no.” Bob gulped. “Goddamit! The garden! I just… I haven't had time to care for it, not since the accident.”

“Oh wow. I couldn't tell.” 

“There's a couple wilted flowers in there…” As soon as Bob said, George peered into the compost pile, sure enough, there were some old dried up leaves, attached to what seemed to be the husk of a stem. George chuckled, “You sure it's not a weed?”

“Oh, I'm not entirely sure. Not entirely sure at all.” Bob bent down beside him. A crack could be heard, after the sound of Bob wincing.

“Oh my God—” George's eyes darted frantically to his friend. “Bob?!” 

“It's fine!” Bob shouted. “AGH! Just the… the injury.”

George frantically got up, confused. “No, no, what do I do?!”

“It's alright, there's medicine in the kitchen cabinet – or actually, I'll get that myself. Just help me up.” Bob reached his hand out, falling to the ground helpless. 

George lifted him up slowly, stressing about whether or not Bob was seeing the dirt under his fingernails. 

“There you go.” Bob sighed, patting the dust off of himself.

Unsure of what to do, George followed Bob to the kitchen, and after the wordsmith searched through nearly every cabinet, cursing under his breath, he found an injection, already filled with a clear solution.

“Shit.” Bob looked down at the syringe with caution. He gestured for George to follow him into the kitchen, all while the silence was deafening.

Once they got to the couch, Bob laid on his back, sweating anxiously. For some time without a word, eventually he croaked, “I’m sorry… Can you do it?”

“...Do what?”

“Essentially prick me.” Bob lifted his shirt and pointed at his hip. “Right here, somewhere around my back.”

George hesitated. Stuttering and struggling to get anything out. 

Bob gave him a knowing look.

George knew then and there he would have to do this.

He narrowed the syringe slowly but surely before stopping himself, “Are you sure?! If I do this wrong, it won't kill you or anything, yes?” George quivered.

Bob sighed, exasperated. “Well we're about to find out.”

“Not funny…” George muttered under his breath. “Killing my idol would be horribly embarrassing. Not unless I'm an obsessed freak or… anything.” George faltered when he noticed Bob did not give a response, preoccupied with the burning pain in his hips.

Slowly, he moved it again. The syringe was big, way bigger than any sort of injection thingy George had ever seen. Closer and closer, George neared Bob's side, with shaky hands and precision like no other.

Eventually, it was inserted. Bob moaned and groaned and it pained George to hear him wail that way, but the pain subsided as all things do, and George pulled the needle out safely.

“Phew!” George wiped some sweat off his brow. “What was that for?”

“It's just some heavy painkillers.” Bob sighed. “I'm not particularly fond of putting them in me, but I'd rather feel that everyday than my ribs feeling like they'll close in on me at any moment.”

“...What exactly… happened to you?”

“It'd be better if we don't talk about it.” Bob retorted.

George had messed up. He knew it in his heart. Bob wasn't happy with him, he wasn't, and this all the more disheartened him. This whole mission in the first place got off on horrible footing, and he should've just never done something so impromptu like this, not before—

“So… About that garden plot.” Bob looked up at George from his spot, sitting on the couch. “John tells me you're a gardener now.”

“Oh, yanno… I tend to dabble when I can, not like you can garden without a particular place of residence.” George shrugged.

“No, but I can tell. Just based on the dirt in your fingernails.”

“Oh! I was horribly embarrassed about that, actually!” George admitted. “Honestly I thought that would all come out in the wash!” He scratched his head, sheepishly.

“Come up. I'll take a look at that garden of yours.” George lifted Bob up from the couch.

The garden patch was quite big. So it was a waste to see it oh so empty. “Okay— this is what would look good over here:” George excitedly clapped his hands together, “Some Evening Primrose there near the start and interchangeably in a stripe sorta pattern… Jessamine… Some Larkspur there, there, and there!.. and some Austrian Rose, just because I love the aesthetics of the flower and all.” He finished, turning to Bob for his approval.

Bob looked to the side before returning his gaze to George. “Sure. They're flowers.” He put his hand on George's shoulder. “I like how excited you are about this whole ordeal.”

“Well, I'm not too excited… I just couldn't help meself you know…” George shrugged. “It's just that the plot of land is too empty for me. It bugs me deeply.”

“Oh bugs you?” Bob put his hands on his hips. “So there's strong feelings for this lack of plants then. You know, you're not one to spew out all your feelings, George.”

“Oh is that so? I'd like to think I pour my soul out to anyone who listens… at least anyone listening that interests me in any way.” 

“Well, I'm sold.” Bob smiled. “Come on, let's go buy those seeds.” 

“Really? I was just kidding about the Larkspurs then. They're ah… poisonous.”

____

Bob started the car and they were back to their old familiar positions. George put his hand out the car window to feel the wind on his fingers. Bob smiled, as George enjoyed the sights of the country. 

Bob hasn't had an intimate moment with George this way. Not when they were both sober, with no coke or alcohol in their system. And he's gotten to know George in the way John had been telling him about.

He still remembers how, when they'd filmed a scene for a movie together, John had told him something in the back of his car, when the lights had faded and the cameras were away from the men.

“You know…” John said, smoking. “George practically begged me to let ‘im join us.” 

“He did?” Bob said, taking his sunglasses off.

“Yeah! See, I introduced the lot of them to you back at home… but he was the only one that sorta clung to your work that much out of everyone.” The Beatle said, waving smoke out of his face. “Well— everyone besides me.” 

It had Bob thinking. Still, he acknowledged how he was prone to overthinking things. Things he shouldn't have even been thinking of in the first place. 

But maybe he and George were destined for something else. Perhaps something more intimate than awkward side hugs and mumbling stutters in hotel rooms, all drunk. 

“Hey Bob!” George exclaimed. “There, out in the distance!”

Finally they stumbled upon a spot that actually sold a nice set of gardening supplies. George got down, and Bob followed after, admiring his outfit.

Once again, George was dressed to the nines. In a nice psychedelic floral pattern that trailed down his flared jeans and was exuded in the charms he wore over his neck. He had a denim jacket over a vest and a nice collared long sleeved shirt, the aforementioned jacket had a large spiral over it. Bob caught himself staring at the spiral the whole day, getting lost in the mesmerizing pattern, akin to the way a mental patient was hypnotized.

“God, it's chilly out.” George remarked.

“I thought you were impervious to the cold.” 

“Ooh, heavens no.” George laughed. “I was just saying that so you'd scooch out of the floor… stop me from feeling so bad!”

The bell chimed above them as they entered the store. There was a neat array of potted plants already set up, with names on them that Bob wouldn't dare pronounce. “How about these ones?”

“Hm… I'd rather not.” George shook his head. “I'd prefer planting my own flowers.”

This wasn't Bob's natural habitat, so he stayed by the sidelines while he watched George do his magic. George admired the shop's green walls, painted with different sorts of ferns and leaves, and he crouched down and searched for what he was looking for. 

Bob heard George as he murmured to himself each name of each little plant. “They have ambrosia here… that's a good sign… Sweet alyssum? I haven't seen that in any market I've ever been to… Dedicating some heliotrope to the garden would be neat…” 

Does he know people around him can hear him? He was so lost in his element, computing things Bob couldn't comprehend.

Eventually, he came up to Bob, with a bunch of seed packets. “Here's what I'm gonna do– I'm just gonna jumble them all up in a bowl and spill them over your garden. And what we'll get is what we'll get.”

“You're sure you're all right with all this free labor you're gonna be doing?”

“Oh, I don't see this as labor.” George countered, dozens of seed packets still in his hands, “This is more like… a much needed break from all the stress of the city. Wouldn't you agree?”

Bob smiled. “I can't say getting all that dirt in my fingernails would be a rewarding experience for me, but to each his own I guess.”

Oddly enough, when Bob locked eyes with George there as he squatted on the ground holding a dozen bags of God knows what, Bob felt a deep need for connection that he hasn't felt for anyone else.

Sara always told him that he would “know” if he was meant for someone if their aura felt right. If looking at them made Bob feel like the world stopped, that was a sign that they needed to be in his life longer. But the world didn't just stop, something else happened. Like a spark. A spark of pure energy. 

“Anyway…” George got up, dusting his trousers off. The two went to the counter.

George cleared his throat, “I'll just have these please.” he said suddenly, in an American accent.

The lady at the counter, a nice plump woman with her hair tied in a bun, took each and every one of the packets with no stress, remarking only after they'd all gotten checked out, “You know you look a lot like that boy, the quiet one— from the Beatles!”

George turned with an almost stereotypical Southern flair, hands on his belt, “Is that right, darling?”

“Yeah. I wonder where that guy is now.” George shrugged. 

“Anyway… he wasn't ever my favorite… I was always a Ringo kinda gal.” She said as the two left the store.

“A Ringo kinda gal?” Bob chuckled. “Well that's a first.”

“Oh, no… you'd be surprised at how many Ringo girls are out there.” George added. “They're just not as outspoken as all the John and Paul fanatics.”

The two walked around, continuing to talk, even as they passed the car.

“What about you? You don't have any fanatics of your own?” 

“Ah, no… not many… it's what keeps me humble, and all.” George scratched his head.

“Well I don't think you're being entirely truthful, you know.” Bob looked up at George. “Honestly, I'd be pulling my hair out if-if I were you. You're a looker.”

“Oh… I am?” George said sheepishly.

“Of course!” Bob exclaimed. “And if I were to be Frank, I wouldn't really care all that much. You know, it's not good to have a bunch of preteen girls shouting and crying at your feet, as good as it sounds.” He continued, his hands in his pockets.

“...It sounds good that preteen girls are crying at your feet?”

“No. No!” Bob blushed in embarrassment. “Well… that's not what I meant! What I'm saying is…” Bob shook his head. “Nevermind. You prolly got that more than I ever did. So what do you care if I put my two cents in?”

“No… I care.” George acquiesced. “I care deeply about what you think. Always.” 

“Oh, whatever. It doesn't matter anyways.” Bob gabbed.

Eventually they arrived at a crossroads. “Ah. I've just noticed. We've lost the car!!” George playfully trumpeted. “What'll we do??”

“Well, we could go into that bar over there.” Bob pointed. “Have a drink… Go home.”

George snorted, amused. “I'd rather not have a drink before driving, unless that's something you like doing…” 

“No, right, nothing like that… How about that cafe beside it? They've got coffee. And tea, too!” Bob articulated.

George caved in and the two entered.

It was unlike Bob had seen before. He was accustomed to the rowdiness of bars and public spaces in New York City, with the people shouting over each other and getting into fist fights or singing at the top of their lungs with everyone around them and disturbing the peace of the night.

Here, however, the room was dimly lit and intimate. Peaceful and tranquil, as people drank their beverages and sparingly made conversation. Bob had never been here before, and he's lived in Woodstock for some time at this point. Little did he know it was a pocket world of its own, the jazz playing slow in the back reminding him of a time many years back when he was obsessed with love, and lust, and the secrets hidden in each note of a tune.

A girl with thick eyebrows and an apron approached them eagerly. “Good morning and welcome to Digsy's! What would you boys want today?”

“I'll have a root beer float.” Bob smiled.

“Really?”

“What? I like the ice cream.” 

“I'll have an earl gray.” George nodded.

Soon the lady went away and the boys had time together alone. Not really alone, just together in silence in such an intimate setting. The silence was not awkward in any way; moreso strong and compelling. Bob looked at George as his eyes strolled past all the posters on the walls, and as Bob looked away; George would look at him all the same, wondering what he was thinking.

“And about the whole Darjeeling thing…” George chimed in. “Personally yeah… it gets a bit… earthy. Sometimes too bitter.” 

“But didn't you say you'd defend it up and down?”

“I didn't say it like that.” George clarified. “You know… I said it with less passion. It's just tea. So what?”

The waiter brought their orders.

“Besides, earl grey is far superior.” George gestured. The two joined their drinks together to cheers, all while Bob was still confused on why someone so notoriously opinionated would switch his personal thoughts on a dime like that. I digress. He's right. It's just tea. Bob thought, sipping his root bear, deep in thought.

“What's it taste like?” George blurted. “Your… your root beer I mean.”

“Like… a root beer?”

“Odd.” George shrugged. “I've never tried one before.”

“Oh what, they don't have that in the UK?” 

“No, no, we do… I think… I'm not sure.” George leaned in closer.

“You can have a sip, if you'd like.”

Bob slowly inched the drink towards George. And George, gently, as if he worried the ice cream would topple onto his face, took a sip. 

He came out of it with vanilla cream on his stache. “Oh!” He exclaimed, probably louder than anticipated, “It's nice….” George bubbled. His voice was happy but his face was scrunched up like he'd just had bad medicine.

“It's nice? It doesn't look like you think it's nice.” Bob smirked. “You've got a little something on your face.” 

“No! No..! It's nice! Very nice!” The Beatle insisted, wiping his mouth quickly and discreetly chugging water right afterwards. “Ooh! Look behind you!” George pointed excitedly. 

Bob turned his head— it was a poster for an open mic. And it was starting in about five minutes. 

“We're just in time for the show!” George grinned.

Bob snorted. “Show? We're practically the only fellas left in here!” 

“Oh… yeah… yeah we are…” George awkwardly returned to his position. “I feel a bit bad though. I mean, the waitress was a terribly nice lady.”

“I bet she was just eager to see some customers.”

George looked at the stage, then back at Bob. Bob noticed there was already a setup. A little congregation of instruments, already there for everyone to see, and a microphone hanging on for its dear life on a cheap little stand, but no one around them to play or sing.

“How about we ‘ave a go at it?” George smiled. “We'll have a row, you know, just something to remember!”

“D'oh… You're not worried anyone will recognize you?”

“For God's sake, nobody recognizes me out here, Bobby!” George snickered. “That old lady at the botanist's?”

“Well— frankly, she got mighty and awfully close, y'see!”

George snorted, “It's fine, not one man will know.” 

“And if they do,” The quiet one said softly in Bob's ear, “It's just the barkeep around here anyways. We can just bribe him into shutting it.”

“Wow. Mr. Moptop is willing to go all bribery?”

“Haha. Yes.” George insisted. “C'mon now, it'll be fun..!”

Bob shook his head slowly, “I mean you do what you want to, man. I'm not keeping you on a leather leash or anything.”

“...Well… see, now I don't want to do it.” George groaned, slinking back into his chair, “Without a friend by your side every activity seems less like plain fun and more like public embarrassment!”

“Well in general, this isn't something I saw you doing!” Bob crossed his arms. “But if you think it'll be fun…”

George looked at Bob.

“I mean… I'll join you.”

“You'll join me!” 

“Yes, yes, you heard me. I'll join you.”

_____

“D'you know the song?” Said George into the mic, “I mean, hello, hello, testing, testing…”

“I mean, I think I know it. Maybe.” Bob shrugged, his hands fiddling with the guitar. “Hares On The Mountain?”

“I have the chords somewhere in my songbook, you can have them.” George sighed, rummaging in his messenger bag and handing Bob a nice brown journal. Bob opened it, it was filled to the brim with songs. Songs seemingly by George, unreleased to the public, with handwritten lyrics and chords above them. Others seemed to be just songs George enjoyed, some folk songs, a couple of Chuck Berry pieces at the start of the book, some Fleetwood Mac every now and then, and an awful lot of Bob Dylan. Masters Of War, Don't Think Twice... Bob smiled slightly as he flipped through each page, till finally he landed on the one he needed to follow. “Phew. Okay!” 

George cleared his throat, the barkeep being their only audience. And Bob started to play. 

The wind flew through George's hair from the open window in beside them, and he started:

Oh Sally, my dear, it's you I'll be kissing…

Oh Sally, my dear, it's you I'll be kissing …

She sighed and replied, “You don't know what you're missing.”

Bob watched George as he played. Almost tantalized with the way he swayed on stage. Another instance, he felt, he was hypnotized by George, and the saccharine lull of his voice, and the soothing qualities he brought, soaked into, embedded in every sentence.

Oh Sally my dear, I wish I could wed you…

Oh Sally my dear, I wish I could bed you…

She smiled and replied, ‘Then you’d say I’d misled you’

George turned to Bob for just a fraction of a moment, their eyes meeting and parting ways almost instantly, but for that faint moment, Bob felt it again: Those sparks. Those lovely sparks. Those sparks he'd felt so often with his wife. George began to sing again.

If all you young men were hares on the mountain

If all you young men were hares on the mountain

How many young girls would take guns and go hunting

Almost like a siren he captivated Bob. He would be none the wiser if he were a sailor at sea, in fact, he knew in his heart that despite knowing of the trickery, he'd still follow him into the depths of the sea.

If the young men could sing like blackbirds and thrushes

If the young men could sing like blackbirds and thrushes

How many young girls would go beating the bushes

But the young men are given to frisking and fooling

Oh the young men are given to frisking and fooling

And George stared one final time into Bob's blue eyes, like a parting kiss before the final melody.

So I’ll leave them alone and attend to my schooling.

George grinned as he said the final line. Soon, Bob finished the melody and the song was over. The flash of the cheap spotlight no longer shone on the two, and their vision was returned to the old intimate setting of the bar they once knew before them.

The barkeep, now amassing a crew of waiters, all clapped, giving the duo a round of applause. 

“Well that was the most fun I've had without laughing.” Said Bob to himself, touching his chest and feeling his rapid heartbeat.

George bowed and curtsied playfully to all the attendants, “Thank you, thank you all!”

“You were incredible!” George exclaimed. “Though I wouldn't have expected any less from the great Bobby Dylan… haha…” 

Bob nodded, a smile on his face, words wouldn't come out no matter how much he wanted them to.

They left the bar, the sky behind them, now dark enough for supper. George starts walking in the other direction to his inn, ready to part ways.

“Hey.” 

Bob blurted, George swiftly turning as he beckoned.

“You know… I have a guest room.” He shrugged. “You could stay while Sara's gone for the week.”

A smile spread across George's face. A smile so wide and genuine his eyes creased and his fangs fully showed through his lips. “Yes.” George agreed. “I would really like that, Bob.”

And with that, Bob decided it was time to go home for the day. With George in the passenger seat beside him, like it was when the day started out.

And Bob smiled. Despite the sinking hole in his stomach.

Chapter Text

6

Paradiso

But Bob wouldn't allow it. 

He wouldn't allow himself to be misconstrued and judged, mocked and misused by the masses, expectations towering above him like an insurmountably tall skyscraper above him.

Those were the reasons. 

That was life.

The next day, Bob awoke earlier than usual, shaking off the thought to make breakfast for George and be as accommodating as possible. He could feel the tension growing between him and George. It was undeniable. Still, he thought, as he rubbed his temples, surely it was wrong. With his wife away for just three days, his kids waiting for him… It wasn't right. He wouldn't leave his family for a man he toyed with the thought of. He would never.

Bob shook the thought off. He went to the living room, only to find out that George had already been awake two hours prior. And he was sweaty and exhausted, working hard on the garden.

He was dripping with sweat outside in the background, it was a particularly hot day out so George had tied his long hair and had his sleeves rolled up. 

Bob couldn't stop staring at him. He started making coffee for himself. His eyes; still on George. He felt so perverted that way, holding onto his jaw in fear it would drop thirty feet like it would in a slapstick. George who wiped his sweat on his sleeve, George who laughed with every mishap, George who, despite looking awfully tired already, pressed on in the garden, sprinkling each and every seed and making sure they were spread apart nicely.

“AGH!” Bob exclaimed. He'd hurt himself, burning his hand on the coffee he was not focused on making.

George got up, looking through the window. “Oh, Bob. You're awake!” 

“George…” Bob smiled, nursing his hand with some water.

“Christ, are you alright?”

“I’m alright…” 

“No, you're not alright. My goodness— that's really red.” George tilted his head.

George quickly made his way to the house, “Oh God…” The Beatle touched Bob's hand. Bob winced in pain, taking the hand away as fast as he could.

“I'm fine!” Bob insisted. “You don't need to be doing all this, it's okay really!”

“No it isn't…” George scrunched up his nose. “That needs a bandage wrapped around it, if I've ever seen it.”

“You don't need to take care of me.” Bob narrowed his gaze at the distressed singer, “I'm a grown man, I am. I'll get the bandages myself.” 

“Well, where are they??” George followed behind closely. 

“In the shed, that's where Sara keeps them. I think. Come on, follow me.” 

As they walked outside, George really soaked in Bob's lot, it was huge. They had a lovely vibrant backyard and a huge house to boot, looking at it from behind like this. Most importantly, they had a trampoline. A huge one. George admired it briefly before remembering to follow Bob on his expedition to the first aid kit.

Finally, Bob made it to the shed. He rummaged like hell through each and every cabinet. “Shouldn’t it be out in the open?? Stupid thingy…” Bob grumbled under his breath. “Why do we keep the damn first aid kit so far away anyways?”

“Woah..” George smiled in awe. 

“What're you lookin' at?” Said Bob, turning to George. “Oh. The trampoline.”

“Haha… That looks fun.” 

“What? You wanna go on it?”

“Oh no, I'm not even sure if I packed socks or anything…” George looked back at Bob. “Have you ever–?”

“Oh no. No, it's reserved for the kids, y'know. Plus I'd look entirely foolish hopping up and down on that thing, bounding around like a wild rabbit…”

“I mean…” George said, a mischievous look on his face. “It's not like anyone's here to judge us.” The Beatle shrugged. 

“I guess.” 

Like a child, George took off his shoes, climbed through the kiddie safety net and up on the trampoline. Bob watched, concerned, as George began to jump.

“Woohoo! Look at me, Bob!” 

“Oh, look at you.” Bob chuckled. “Look at you go.” He said, going back to binding his hand with the bandage.

“Oh what? You're just gonna comment and not come up here with me??” George laughed, continuing to jump.

Bob considered.

“Come on, now!!” 

“Oh alright!” Bob exclaimed. He rushed to the trampoline, coming in the same way George did, jumping with glee.

“Haha! Look at you! I thought you said you'd never do it!” 

“Well you're right, anyway!” Bob appealed. “It's not like anyone's gonna see us!”

And just then, there as they jumped, the two turned into children. Laughing and smiling amongst themselves like little school boys. This went on until they were tired, both lying on the trampoline and watching the sky pass.

George guffawed, “Hehe… There. That one looks like a tree.” He pointed at the cloud passing slowly above the two.

“You're not on something, are you? It'd be awfully concerning, what with you on my children's trampoline.” Bob paused. “If anything, it looks more like an arrow.”

“An arrow? Like—”

“Like an arrow in a quiver.”

“Oh. So not a pointy sign arrow like the ones at the airport?”

“No…” Bob smiled slightly. Suddenly, a leaf fell right on Bob's chest. “Oh. Would you look at that!” He said, admiring the thing.

“It's fall.” Said George, looking at the autumn leaves.

“What about it?”

“I dunno… it just seems like everytime I go to New York, it's fall.” He smiled, staring at Bob.

Bob closed his eyes. “Perpetual fall. That's nice.” 

“It is, isn't it?” George sighed, relaxed. “Really is the best season, fall.” 

Another leaf falls on their trampoline. George notices and crawls his way to it, lying back down and raising it up high in the air, for Bob to look at as well. “So red.” Bob noted. “That's the reddest leaf I've ever seen.”

“It's like someone painted it.” George grinned sweetly, the sharpest of his teeth showing.

“Right. It's so red it seems deliberate.”

“Hey, what's that?” George pointed. Bob followed his outstretched finger to a small house off to the side of the main one.

“Oh that?” Bob grimaced. “It uh… used to be my music room.” 

“Used to..?”

“Well, for now, I stopped writing music. Just to heal.” Bob shrugged. “Not even sure if I like writing music now anyways.”

Bob turned to George with a dopey expression on his face, only to be met with a worried and serious look from his companion.

“But your music is some of the best I've ever heard…” George frowned. “Maybe the best I'd ever heard. Ever.”

“Ah well… I like to paint now.” Bob answered. “Do you want to see them?” 

George nodded slowly.