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February, 1964
New York City
The room smelled faintly of soap and cigarette smoke and something electric Alex couldn't quite name. The curtains were drawn despite the hour, shutting out the city's relentless glare. Somewhere below, New York roared – sirens, horns, and voices layered atop one another like a living thing that refused to sleep.
Alex stood near the door, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his heart pounding so hard it made his ears ring.
George sat on the edge of the bed, his guitar resting against his thigh, his fingers motionless on his knee, like he'd forgotten why he'd picked it up in the first place.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Alex felt like if he moved, even slightly, something fragile would shatter. He focused on breathing. In. Out. The floor was patterned, a dull hotel carpet worn thin by thousands of footsteps. He fixed his eyes there, anywhere but George's face.
George was the one who broke the silence.
"You meant it," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Alex nodded. His throat felt tight. "Yeah."
Another pause. The radiator clicked. A car horn blared far below. George shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him.
Alex braced himself.
Instead of pulling away, George stood.
He moved slowly, like he was afraid of startling something skittish between them. He stopped an arm's length away, close enough that Alex could smell the soap and tobacco on his skin.
"You don't have to look so scared," George said, almost gently.
Alex let out a breath that was half a laugh and half a confession.
"I'm trying not to be."
George studied for a moment, his dark eyes searching Alex's face like he was looking for permission. Then, carefully, he reached out and took Alex's hand.
Alex's breath hitched.
George's thumb brushed over Alex's knuckles, tentative but sure. "I don't know what I'm doing," George admitted. "But.. I don't want you thinkin' you're alone in this."
Alex finally mustered the courage to look up. George's expression was real in a way Alex had never seen before.
"I'm not," Alex said softly. "Not anymore."
Goerge leaned in then, slowly enough that Alex could have pulled away if he wanted to. He didn't. Their lips met in a brief, trembling kiss, that was more promise than certainty, more breath than pressure.
When they parted, neither of them could bring themselves to move far.
"So," George murmured, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. "I suppose now, that makes us queers, doesn't it?"
Alex laughed, warmth blooming in his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose it does."
Being together didn't change the world, as it remained loud, demanding and impossible.
It only changed how Alex moved through it.
He stayed close to George without seeming to. He carried things, fetched them, did what he'd always done – but now there was a quiet understanding humming beneath every shared glance.
They learned each other in increments.
George learned that Alex liked his tea strong and forgot to eat when he was nervous.
Alex learned that George grew quiet when overwhelmed and needed space before sleep, even if he still wanted company.
At night, when the hotel hallways finally emptied, Alex would slip into George's room. Sometimes they sat on opposite ends of the bed, talking softly. Sometimes, George would lay back and stare at the ceiling while Alex traced idle patterns into the bedspread beside him.
Touch in the relationship was always careful and intentional, whether it was a hand brushing a wrist, a shoulder pressed close or fingers intertwining briefly before separating again.
"You okay?" George asked often.
"Yeah," Alex always answered, as it was always true, when he was with George.
The tour in America rolled forward relentlessly.
Every city blurred into the next, and so did backstage corridors, dressing rooms, and flashing lights. George leaned into Alex more without quite realizing it. There was always a hand on Alex's arm as they walked now, or a glance over his shoulder in crowded spaces.
Alex remained steady for George, or yet, for himself.
One night, after a show that left George pale and shaking, Alex guided him back to his room and shut the door quietly behind them. George sat on the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.
Alex hesitated, then sat beside him.
George didn't have the capacity to speak. He leaned sideways and rested his head on Alex's shoulder as he weeped.
Alex wrapped an arm around him instinctively, holding him there.
"... 'S all too much," George muttered.
"I know," Alex said softly.
They stayed like that until George's breathing evened out.
He still continued to mutter throughout the whole night, though.
Back home, England felt smaller when they returned. It was quieter, darker, and more forgiving.
They had fallen into a rhythm.
George sought Alex out after rehearsals, slipping away under flimsy excuses. They sat together in empty rooms, smoke curling between them as rain tapped against the windows.
"You ever wish it was simpler?" George asked one evening.
Alex considered it, for a moment. "Sometimes. But I don't wish it was different, really."
George smirked. "Good."
They kissed more then – but it was still careful and private as before. It was just less uncertain.
George kissed like he was learning something precious.
Alex kissed like he'd been waiting years.
By 1965, the pressure grew.
George became restless and sharp-edged. Alex noticed the way he clenched his jaw and the way his shoulder stayed tense even when he tried to relax.
Alex adapted without complaint.
He positioned himself where George could find him easily. He learned when to speak and when to stay quiet. When George snapped, Alex didn't take it personally. When George went distant, Alex stayed close enough to remind him that he wasn't alone.
One night, George awoke suddenly, his breath ragged.
Alex sat up immediately. "Hey, hey!"
George turned towards him, eyes wide, then softened them when he recognized him. He reached out, gripping Alex's shirt like a lifeline.
"Stay," George whispered.
"I'm here," Alex promised.
They fell back asleep tangled together, the world held at bay for now, even if it was only for a second.
By now, they fit together so easily.
Alex sat on the floor of a dim flat, his back against the couch, whilst George leaned against him, his head tipped back. Those dark, enchanting eyes of his were closed as he took in the incense that burned low in the room, the air heavy and sweet.
"You make it easier," George said suddenly.
Alex smiled, brushing his fingers through George's hair. "That's all I ever wanted."
George turned his head slightly, catching Alex's hand. He pressed a kiss to Alex's knuckles, soft and reverent.
"I love you."
Alex blushed and gave a small smile.
"I love you too."