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“Y’know… yer a really gear bird.”
You look over at the man lying next to you in the grass, and you can’t help but snort with laughter for a moment. His eyes are fixed on the stars, but you see him glance sideways at you before returning his gaze to the heavens.
“What’s so funny, like?”
“‘Gear bird’. Say it again. It’s funny.”
“I won’ ‘ave you takin’ the mick outta the way I speak. ‘ere I am, payin’ yeh a compliment,” George says, but the way he laughs tells you he’s not really offended. “Yer cruel, is what you are.”
“I’m not cruel.” You roll onto your stomach, and he reaches over awkwardly to pick blades of grass from your cardigan. “We should head back soon.”
“Ey, it’s alright, Paulie’ll cover for us. I ‘aven’t seen yehs in… what… two weeks?” he says, and you feel sadness well up from inside your stomach. He’s been travelling – and he’s off to America soon. You can hardly stand it, and you bury your face in your arm for a moment. “I… I wanted a few seconds alone with yeh, like.”
“You’ll be missed,” you murmur, and you don’t know whether you mean at the party you’ve escaped from, or when he gets on that plane again. Both, you guess, heavy-hearted. He’ll be gone. Mauled by fans from a whole other country. Your fingers idly pick grass blades. “Do you think about me?”
“(Y/N)…”
“Do you?” you ask, and he rolls over, so his body touches yours. Only the thin layers of your cotton skirt and blouse, and the thicker ones of his dark brown suit, are between the two of you, and you lean your head on his shoulder, enjoying his warmth against the chill of the London night. He reaches out, and plucks something from the ground – it’s a daisy, closed against the darkness, white petals streaked with pink.
“Yeh know what this is, right?” he asks, teasingly, and you thump his arm. “Ey! Just gotta check I’m not gettin’ ahead of yeh…”
“Oh, George Harrison, gardening maestro,” you mutter, and he grins at you, showing all of those sharp teeth. “What’s your point?” He gently strokes the flower along your jawline, and you giggle at how it tickles.
“Well, y’see, they’ve got these in America.” You honestly want to roll your eyes. You’ve never been, but you’re not daft. “An’ you know what. They’ve always reminded me of you.”
That makes your stomach flip, and you look over at him; he’s staring at the tiny flower between his fingers, and you watch him for a moment, waiting for him to speak again.
“‘Cause, y’see, when you see ‘em in a grassy field, they don’t half look like stars,” he says quietly, almost to himself, and you lean on him again. “Kinda like you right now, really…” You feel the breath leave your chest, and you could almost start crying. “So like… when yeh see one of these, just remember I’m probably lookin’ at them in America, an’ thinkin’ about yeh…”
“George?! (Y/N)?!”
You look up sharply – outlined in the doorway of the house is the host of the party, whose name escapes you right now, and George pecks you on the cheek quickly before scrambling to his feet.
“We were just lookin’ at yer garden. Real close,” he adds, and you snort with laughter as you scramble to your feet. “Ah, look at yer, covered in grass… can’t take yer anywhere…” As he brushes you off, you hope you don’t have any grass stains on you. John won’t hesitate to call that out… and then George stops you in the doorway and gently tucks the closed daisy into your hair, and you suddenly don’t care.