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Uneasy silence weighs the room down as they wait for Paul’s verdict.
George shifts the guitar in his lap so he can rest his ankle on the opposite knee. He doesn't know what take they've done at this point, having stopped counting after the fourth one (yesterday he'd stopped after the sixth one); all of them blending into one seemingly endless smudge. He’s about to pick up his cigarette from the ashtray when the door opens.
Paul emerges from the control room and he doesn't have to say anything — his eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth twisted in an unhappy curve. A groan is threatening to crawl out of George’s throat, but he suppresses it into a mere sigh.
Paul slides on the stool behind the piano, casts a quick glance around the room. He doesn't turn around to look at George, though George hopes he can feel his gaze digging in his back.
“Let's give it another go, all right?”
“‘Course, Paul, we’re just dying to, aren’t we, boys?,” John's voice carries across the room, mockingly light. He turns to Yoko, who is sitting on the floor next to him. They lean towards each other in a murmured exchange; John's dressed in all white, Yoko's in black and together they form almost perfect yin and yang.
George feels an unexpected pang of envy at John having someone from the outside here; someone in whom he can find some sort of fleeting refuge. He tries to picture Pattie or even Shyamasundar beside him, glued to his side, but the image seems too absurd to cling on to. It would be sadistic to put anyone through this, anyway — having to listen to them play through the same kiddish song over and over again. He glances at Yoko, wonders if she's managing to hide earplugs under her long hair.
“Just maybe two more takes. We almost got it, I can tell,” Paul tries, but the frail optimism is almost unbearable at this point.
George exhales a puff of smoke, opens his mouth and tries very hard to strip his voice of the annoyance that's gnawing at him.
“Y'know, I got this tune I've told you about. Thought we might try and give it a go today.”
Paul twists to cast a fleeting look over his shoulder, his eye barely meeting George’s before he’s turning back again.
“Sure, George. Once we're done with this one, yeah?” he says, as if trying to appease a stubborn child. It scrapes on George's nerves like nails against a chalkboard.
Before he has a chance to reply, John looks up, emerging from his private globule.
“Get in line, Georgie,” he says, just as dismissive, making George set his jaw. “We were supposed to work on one of mine yesterday, remember? But someone was still unsatisfied with their own bleedin' song and we didn't get to it.”
George can't see Paul's face, but he doesn't miss the way his shoulders hike up ever so slightly.
“Fine, John, we'll do it in the afternoon,” he says as he rearranges the lyrics scattered on top of his piano.
Silence follows; it stretches and stretches until it becomes dangerously thin. It snaps as John scoffs.
“You said that yesterday, Paul.”
George tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear as an argument slowly unfurls in front of him. It carries the all too familiar hum of an overplayed record; the same accusations and excuses being flung back and forth.
He looks over to Richie, who’s watching the exchange with glazed eyes, back leaned against the wall. When their gazes meet, the corner of his mouth quirks just the tiniest bit, his shoulder rises and falls in weak sympathy.
George tries to offer a smile in return, but it turns into more of a grimace. He turns back and tries to tune out the continuing cacophony; John's increasingly venomous remarks cutting through Paul's desperate attempts at being consoling, but betraying a growing frustration underneath.
From the corner of his eye he sees Ringo get up from the drum kit and stretch his arms; across from him Yoko flips idly through a magazine. George continues smoking, closes his eyes and begins to quietly chant to himself, Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna; focuses on the words until they fill his head and push out everything else.
“Fine then, let’s do it for the one hundredth fucking time,” John snaps finally, yanking his guitar towards himself with such force George thinks he might break its neck.
Paul meanwhile tries to pretend that nothing has happened; he runs a hand through his hair, clearing his throat awkwardly before he attempts to get things back on track. Ringo sits back behind his drums, and George stubs out the rest of his cigarette, crushing it into a tiny, twisted heap. Paul announces that they will take it from the top, like this is something they all should be excited about.
George settles back with his guitar, gaze set on the back of Paul’s head, waiting for any mention of his song.
There is none.
It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.
George's just finished making himself a fresh cup of tea, when Paul walks into the kitchen.
He pauses in the doorway for a short second before he comes closer, offering George a timid smile that George doesn't return. He wraps his fingers around the cup and is about to leave, when Paul breaks the silence with a tentative: “I know you're angry with me.”
George looks at him with an unimpressed raise of an eyebrow; can't be bothered to do much else, if Paul’s come here just to state the obvious. He watches him fiddle with the box of tea, opening and closing it without taking any of the teabags out. The air around him vibrates with hesitant restlessness. George takes a sip of his tea and stays where he is, mildly curious to see where this will go.
Paul turns to face him after a moment, pressing his hip into the counter top and folding his arms across his chest as if to shield himself.
“I'm sorry,” is what he offers next. He wraps the words in quiet sincerity that only tugs at the deep-rooted anger within George.
He should leave — fuck Paul and fuck his apologies. The whole day comes back to him, spooling out in front of his eyes; the infuriating moments standing out from the never-ending stream of fruitless work they’ve been slowly drowning in.
He doesn’t go, but places his cup on the counter with a loud clink and looks at Paul with narrowed eyes.
“Are you, Paul? About what? The umpteenth take of your song or not even pretending to care about the song I wrote?”
Paul winces at that. George can’t help the twisted satisfaction that uncurls in his gut.
“I do care,” he says after a beat and George almost scoffs. Paul must catch a hint of it in his face. He leans closer, meeting George's firm gaze with his irritatingly soft one.
“We'll go through a couple more takes of this song. We might even finish it today and squeeze in John's. And if we do, then first thing tomorrow we'll start working on yours.”
George knows there is no use pointing out the might and if that stick out like thorns.
He would find it incredulous — for Paul to think that he can waltz in here with these feeble, worn-out promises that George will swallow with nothing but a thankful smile. He would, if it wasn’t exactly what he’d expect Paul to do.
He keeps his lips pressed in a tight line. Paul shifts his weight as the silence grows around them and George has no intention of putting him out of his misery. Finally, when Paul can’t bear it anymore, he says in that same placating tone:
“I don't want you to think that your song is not important… but we've already started working on mine,” he shrugs his shoulder, like that’s a completely valid reason. And George knows that to him it is.
He closes his eyes. What was only a tug earlier is now a full-on blow right to his core; the careful layer of detachment he’s grown over the years cracks and Paul’s words stir the tightly wound-up bundle of frustration and anger that’s lodged below his ribcage.
“No, I get it,” he replies, voice dry as ash, “it’s all that matters, getting the Lennon-McCartneys all nice and perfect… or only the McCartneys now, I suppose.”
Paul's eyes widen as if he has any right to be shocked by that. He frowns and opens his mouth: “I'm not doing it on purpose. I don’t want it to be like this,” his voice is soaked with frustration. George isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the recording or the band or all of it.
He doesn't want to fight, not really — he's not John, who seems to purposefully seek it out sometimes, like shark looking for traces of blood.
A small sigh escapes his lips. “I know, Paul.”
Paul chews on his bottom lip; it’s a familiar tick, one he’s had since they were young. George usually finds it endearing, but now he watches him do it with numb indifference.
“It’s just…” Paul starts and stops, his gaze darting to the floor, as if the right words were waiting there for him. When he looks up, the murky green-brown of his eyes stirs with vulnerability that startles George.
“I know how it should sound in order to be good. So I have to try and try until the song matches what I hear in my head… ‘cause otherwise what’s the point?” the question comes out quiet, but it ripples in the air between them with the force of a shriek.
It's not a shocking revelation to George; given how long they’ve known each other, it would be impossible for him not to be aware of the endless chase of perfection that dictates Paul’s life. But George fears that he might never reach it, that whatever it is Paul hears in his head can exist only there.
He doesn't know how to respond. The only thing that comes to mind is You're going to drive yourself mad. You’re going to drive us all mad.
"Yeah, I know,” is what he says instead.
Paul blinks and stares at him for a moment. He untangles one of his hands and reaches out, places it on top of George's shoulder; it sits uncomfortably heavy there and Georges fights the urge to shrug it off.
“When we get to yours, we will give as much time as you'd like, all right?” Paul says then, earnest and hopeful in a way that coats the back of George’s throat with a thick layer of bitterness.
Because it's not just about this one song and they both know it; George has notebooks full of good, solid tunes that are collecting dust and no one cares. To them he is still the scrawny boy who is forever doomed to be one step behind them — scurrying to catch up with the older ones, the more experienced ones, the more talented ones and inevitably failing. He can see it in Paul’s eyes even now, the somewhat affectionate pity of an older brother.
He recalls the meeting at his house after he’d quit the band and Paul in particular assuring him that they won’t be pushing him aside anymore, that they will actually listen to him and take his work seriously. George can’t decide whether he’s angry at Paul for his unfulfilled promises or at himself for believing them in the first place.
George’s shoulder slumps under Paul’s hand.
He’s tired. He’s so incredibly tired.
His gaze shifts from the grease collected in the roots of Paul's hair to the dark circles stamped under his eyes. It occurs to him that maybe there is no real escape from this, that they are stuck in a cycle they are unable to break, a snake that is slowly choking on its own tail. Perhaps this is the price they have to pay for reaching the top they'd so boldly claimed for themselves all those years ago.
He takes Paul's hand and drops it off his shoulder — tries to be somewhat gentle with it, but there is still a flicker of hurt in Paul's face that he can't bring himself to dwell on.
He picks up his cup and walks to the door, then stops and looks back over his shoulder.
“Whatever you say, Paul.”