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"You know, they say in this life you have to perfect one human relationship in order to really love God. You practice loving God by loving another human and by giving unconditional love. George's most important relationships really were conducted through their- their music and their lyrics. […] and he was very unabashed and, uh, a romantic about it in a- in a sense. You know, I found that he was very, uh... He had these love relationships with his friends. He loved them."
-Olivia Harrison, Living In The Material World (2011)
1965, August 18th.
George was grateful for muscle memory, he wasn’t sure if he would have ever remembered everything off the top of his head. Going on stage was always the biggest rush of adrenaline, straight to your brain and your heart. The type that makes you shaky after, with a slight pounding in your head, unsure if it was the screams or the chemical reaction of your mind playing tricks on you.
Walking off stage, sweat from the theatre made George’s hair stick to his forehead, and his back permanently glued to his collared shirt. George had made up his mind a long time ago that he would never, ever, get used to this feeling.
George had heard from Ringo, that he’d heard from Paul, that Paul had heard that John had a joint, and that as a reward for the show would be smoking it in the hotel bathroom as soon as they got away to their rooms. Which was a nice surprise.
John had smoked the most, and one joint shared between 4 of them was hardly enough of anything to feel substantially high, John’s hogging notwithstanding. By the time Paul and George had made their way back to their room, George had started to feel some tingles of a sensation that one might, in very loose terms, consider to be signs of highness. He felt more solid on the ground, somehow, and his mind had slowed down just a moment, but the slightness to which it presented itself meant he felt more like he’d just spun around a few times. Most of the effect probably due to second hand smoke than even what he was able to scrape away from it.
“I’m bloody sick of John.” George complained into the air, shucking his suit jacket off and onto the floor. George wouldn’t mention that he wasn’t, nor that he was closer with John than ever before. Not what he was complaining about, after all.
“Aye cheer up, mate.” Paul closed the door behind them and walked to his suitcase, which was haphazardly strewn on the floor.
“No seriously, he had like the good majority of it, and that little isn’t going to get anyone buzzed.” George undid his tie and top button, finally being able to breathe freely once again.
“Just shh, look.” Paul reached into his suitcase, pulling out a bag of hash. George smiled very enthusiastically at this discovery. “Do you want to roll?”
“Nah, you got it, right?” George said, smiling through his words.
“Sure, absolutely,” Paul obliged.
It’s not that George didn’t know how to roll, or even that he didn’t like doing it, he was perfectly fine at executing it when he was making one for himself. Regardless, it could be a little hit or miss, once he rolled it so loosely every puff caused a cough, and went through it so quickly he was honestly a little embarrassed at the waste of it. He didn’t like the possibility of that happening in front of Paul, who he knew was better than him at it anyway.
They’re on Paul's tiny bed, both George and Paul cross legged, George leaning slightly into the pillow behind him.
Paul was always very methodical at what he did. Sometimes, sure, he would loosen up a bit and just do things to shake it up, but it always seemed even then that it was a calculated move. George wasn’t sure if Paul knew he did this, or whether it was even intentional in the first place, or if it was just George reading too far into things as he so often did.
Using the hotel notebook as a tray, Paul folded it slightly. Tearing out another page's corner, he rolled it up to use as a makeshift filter. As Paul went through the familiar steps, all George could look at or think about was the scene in front of him, the work of Paul's hands as he carefully scooped and fitted it between the paper, how focused he looked, eyebrows softly knitted together.
The bedside lamp was the only thing in the room that lit up the scene, a stark shadow crossed over the right side of his face, the cavern of his eye in shadow, cupid's bow casting the smallest shadow that lifted toward his cheekbone. Paul was using the tiniest grinder he’d ever seen, metal, with a flower shape marked on the top of it. The smell of the freshly ground cannabis wafting through the air, bright and pungent. Parts of it kept getting stuck in the spikes, so Paul resorted to dumping it out on the paper and carefully picking it up with his pointer finger.
He continued to watch, Paul brought it to his lips to lick the paper, tongue darting out to do so. George’s mouth was suddenly very dry, whether it was a delayed reaction to the measly puff he was secluded to earlier, or something else, he wasn’t sure.
“Have you got a pen?” Paul asks, eyes feeling a bit like the friendliest daggers he’d ever seen. George wouldn’t mind getting stabbed today, he decided.
George twisted to the bedside table to retrieve one. “Here.” George passes it to Paul.
“Ta.” Paul uses the end of it to compress what’s already in there, using the rolled paper as a funnel to shovel more inside. It was another scene that made George feel like this was the most important film he would ever see.
Paul finished by collecting anything that had fallen on the paper, and twisting the end.
“Right! Off we go?” Paul announced.
George felt like it was all over far too quickly, but agreed and got up. There was a small balcony tied to the room, the view limited by the building sat in front of them. It was late enough in the night that no one would be on the other balconies rowed up beside theirs.
Summer not yet ending, the warm air of the night made for an odd feeling, it would only ever get this warm during the day in summer over in England. It wasn’t only the temperature itself, the wind was warm, too. None of the bone shattering, hyperthermia causing, numbing winds that so often found themselves at night. George was sure he’d adjust to the warmth soon enough, or hoped he would at the very least.
Paul finds his lighter in the pocket of his dress pants, and flicks it open.
“Ah, bloody wind tunnels.” Paul uttered and moved to the corner, cupping the side of his face. Finally, smoke billowed from where he stood, quickly dissipating in the wind.
They shared it between the two of them, George tried not to think that hard about it, after all he had shared cigarettes with all of them at some stage or another. But to George this one felt different, more significant in its own way.
At one point, the wind was strong enough to put it out, and Paul stood and watched as George tried to figure out what the issue was. Uselessly inhaling, George finally looked over to Paul who was sporting the worst poker face he’d ever seen.
“You’re so annoying, gimme your lighter.” George puts out his hand expectantly.
“What lighter?” Paul looks around, as if there was a person behind him George was referring to that wasn’t part of the wall.
Naturally, George starts reaching over to Paul to try and retrieve it from his pockets, which results in Paul trying to shove his hands away, with little success. George might not be the most coordinated, but by God, he’s determined.
Taking less effort than the first time Paul tried to light it, George lit it the first try. Acting smug was cut short when he burst into a coughing fit.
“Oh-“ cough.“Christ-“ cough. Forcing himself to not breathe, and in turn making small sounds that are not him coughing thank you very much, George waits a moment, and takes another puff and hands it over. Rewarding himself with clearing his throat for the final time.
“Smooth.” Paul helpfully comments. George was debating giving his left first to Paul's face, but settled for a knowing glare. George clears his throat again.
When Paul took a puff, lighting the very end into a glowing fuzz of red, George noticed the way Paul's chest rose and fell. How Paul's lips rounded to exhale, and the way did it again, but more casually this time. George broke eye contact after he realised he was staring.
Without too much fuss, they made it to the end, and back inside. The first thing George did was wash his mouth out with the sink water, mouth feeling like sandpaper.
With a certain level of foresight, he grabbed Paul's portable radio that he brought everywhere and sat it down on the bedside table.
Paul started telling a story, one that George didn’t quite get the first bit of, and resolved to nodding and encouraging to move the story along, appreciating the way Paul lit up when he talked about the past. Paul was always one to drown in nostalgia, George could probably make a safe assumption in thinking that Paul came out of the womb nostalgic.
George had picked up on the fact that it was a story from Hamburg, but didn’t really hear anything. Paul's impressions were too funny, and his dry wit shining through during punchlines.
It ended just as fast as it had begun, both of them laughing by the end. George always appreciated the fact that Paul chuckled a bit to himself when he thought he had said something funny or worth noting. More often than not, it was out of some need to try and impress John if he was in the room, but sometimes George was lucky enough to have him all on his own.
Paul started another story, George was determined to hear this one in full, but unluckily for him, it dawned on George just how loud they must be about now. It was the dead of night, the people around them would probably find out they were being loud from smoking weed. This sudden urge cut Paul off.
“Shhh!” George leaned over and hushed Paul to be quiet, but at the sudden objection George started giggling, at some form of absurd humour he had found in the moment.
Paul gave him a confused look, smile playing on his lips and fell into laughter with him.
“No come on,” George managed, “you’ve got to be quieter.” Biting down on his lip to avoid another spill of laughter.
Paul reigned it in for a moment, unsuccessfully, then tried again. Attempting with some sympathy to soothe the paranoia that suddenly swept over George. “I’m sure the others can’t hear a word, y’know. It’ll be a great story; ‘Beatles found high in a hotel’. Put that in the monthly!”
George laughs a bit at the prospect. “Having your next birthday card fanmail bag just full of free reefer.”
Paul laughs back. “Exactly so it’s not our issue.”
George hummed as a response, and put his head on his hand. George then made eye contact with the portable radio Paul had been bringing everywhere. George tried to summon it to himself with his mind powers, but it proved inconsequential, and twisted around with more force than probably needed, to grab it. He fiddled around with the buttons until it eventually started playing. Partway through a Dylan track, George confidently put it back down on the bedside.
“Everything is just better high, you know?” George began.
“Hm?” Paul's glazed eyes made their way to George as he was talking.
“Music’s better, jokes are funnier and that.”
“Yeah.” Paul waited a moment, “but also playing music yourself sounds better in the moment but when you relisten later..”
“Do you remember those recordings we did? Just completely out of time and off key.” George knew he was egging Paul on a bit with rerouting the conversation back to nostalgia.
It was the right choice, because even though these sessions were only a few months ago it got Paul talking like he was remembering a distant past. George wondered if his memories were just stronger than the average person's. Could Paul remember and feel the way the wind smelt all those years ago, or was it just a quirk that he was able to remember all of this, and be a fantastic story teller on top of it all?
George hadn’t found himself to suddenly become much more chatty, but rather, all the instincts in his mind that usually keep him quiet are gone. It just becomes easier, in short. Seems in everyday conversation, there’s about 15 hoops he has to pass through in his own mind before it successfully passes the test and he can say what he means. George knows when and when not to speak, a talent he wishes more of the press knew. Contrasted well, he thought, with Paul's sudden ability to describe the shade of green the sun made the leaves on an early summer day.
“‘S a lot, innit, the fans and that” George starts. He wasn’t sure how long the conversation lulled for, but thoughts flowed more outwardly than they usually would on a night like tonight.
“I don’t know really, you know, I think they mean well.” Paul mutters in a way close to a whisper, but never quite reaching low enough. Paul's voice was soft in that way, caring when he needed to be, cold and calculated the next.
“Yeah, sure.” Speaking honestly George was happier than ever to be stepping off the stage and getting to the privacy of a room. “I don’t know.”
“I’m sure it’ll fade soon.”
“I mean, it’s just,” George pauses to collect his thoughts, or what he has left of them. “I can’t even hear meself, let alone you, or John or Rings. It’s a lot sometimes, all them eyes on you.”
Paul hums and agrees. “Would still take it over that first tour in Scotland.”
“Yeah,” George smiles. “I never want to play Shea Stadium again.”
“Oh come on, but the thrill!”
“For you, maybe. I get so sick I can barely stand.” George reflectively shudders. “Dunno, it’s a bit daft, really.”
“Come on, you’re allowed to be worried about things.” Paul states the obvious, and as if he’s never felt the true scope of human emotion before. “You went and played and it was alright in the end, you know. We got what we wanted in the end.”
“You got what you wanted.” George clarifies the subtext between Paul's words. “You can’t wait to play the next show, I dread it every morning.”
Paul doesn’t respond to that one, and for a terrifying moment George thinks he’s ruined the night. Him and his blabbermouth can’t shut up when he needs to. Classic.
“I ‘spose you’re right.” Paul finally admits. A bit tepid, if anything. Better than no words at all.