Chapter Text
Chapter 1
-The Practice-
The afternoon light streamed through the dusty windows of Paul's bedroom, which had been turned into a rehearsal room.
George adjusted the strap on his guitar as he ran a hand through his hair, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. He had only been playing with the band for a month and was still under the strange impression that someone would suddenly realize they had made a mistake in letting him join.
Across the room, Paul tuned his bass, softly humming a tune. John stood by the window, a notebook in his hand, its pages covered with a multitude of doodles and a series of half-finished chords.
“Right then lads,” he said, walking towards the centre of the room. “I've got a new song we can try.”
George tried to make sense of the gibberish written on the paper.
How could anyone write so badly?
John caught him staring.
“That's a G chord,” he said bluntly, pointing to something that looked nothing like a G.
George felt himself blush with embarrassment as he looked down.
“Yeah. Right.”
He shyly placed his fingers on the fretboard, trying to pretend he knew that all along.
The evening unfolded to the sound of music coming from the boy’s bedroom. After a while, they stopped playing and collapsed around the room.
John plopped on Paul’s bed with a loud thud. “Blimey, my fingers are dead,” he said, rubbing his hands together. George lay beside him, one eye half-open, while the other rested after the long day. A fresh summer night breeze drifted through Paul’s window, making George shiver.
Ringo laughed, dropping onto the floor next to Paul. “What a sissy,” he called out to him, playing with his drumsticks. Paul snorted and continued fiddling with his bass.
“Oi! What side are you on!” John shouted, playfully nudging Paul. George let out a small giggle as Paul shoved John back.
“On the side of whoever’s talking less rubbish, is all.” Paul shot back, plucking a familiar tune. Ringo burst out laughing and rolled onto his back. Soon, everyone was chuckling for no real reason.
George glanced at his watch.
6:40 p.m.
“Shit,” he muttered, jumping to his feet, no longer feeling the tiredness he’d felt a moment ago. “Mum’s gonna kill me.” He slung his guitar swinging it over his shoulder and turned towards the door.
“See you tomorrow, lads.”
“See ya” Ringo said.
“Yeah, bye Geo.” Said Paul distantly.
He was now leaning over John’s shoulder. Both of them hovered over the notebook, writing what seemed like lyrics, while Ringo drummed a beat onto the mattress.
George paused in the doorway for a moment. They barely noticed him leaving. He hesitated for a split second before stepping through the doorway. He sighed silently and headed downstairs, putting his coat on. He still could hear the giggles coming from Paul’s room.
When George had first started coming to practice, he’d noticed straight away how close Paul and John were. Always talking about songs. Records. Lyrics.
Always together.
At first, he didn’t really seem to mind. But lately, it has started to bother him more than he’d like to admit.
…
The next day, the boys had another rehearsal at Paul's house. George clutched the notebook containing his new song to his chest as he walked through the soggy streets of Liverpool, the rain soaking the bottom of his jeans. He made his way eagerly to Paul's house, taking a route he had walked countless times before.
His stomach was fluttering with the anticipation that always preceded an exciting event. Perhaps it was the melody he had composed the night before.
He almost started running when the familiar red-brick façade came into view. His shoes splashed through the numerous puddles on the pavement. Strands of hair came loose and fell onto his forehead. He quickly pushed them back into place and muttered “daft git” to himself.
He finally arrived at his friend's house. Inside, he heard the faint, buzzing sound of a bass guitar. He knocked on the door, his heart pounding after his run. George heard the muffled sound of footsteps approaching from inside, and a moment later, the door opened. Paul stood there, a smile on his lips.
“Hiya Geo! Come on in!”
Paul led him upstairs and took George's guitar, carefully placing it next to his bass.
Paul's room wasn't very big, but the boys managed to squeeze in with their instruments without much trouble. Posters of Buddy Holly, Elvis and Little Richard covered the walls, their corners slightly worn. On the back of the door was a poster of Brigitte Bardot, which John often stared at during practices. Records were piled up near the window, some of them still half out their sleeves.
“Ringo and John aren’t here yet,” Paul said, grabbing his bass guitar.
George tried not to clench his notebook harder.
He sat on a small stool in the corner of the room, his notebook rested on his lap. He tapped the corner of the book with his fingers while watching Paul, who was adjusting the tuning pegs of his bass.
George cleared his throat, swinging his legs.
“Em...Paul?”
He looked up from his bass, “Yeah?”
George shrugged, trying to sound casual. “After practice... d’you fancy heading down to the record shop with me? There’s this one record I’d be meaning to have a listen to.”
Paul hesitated but flopped down onto his bed
“Ahh can’t today,” he said, running a hand in his hair. “John and I are working on something later.” He showed an apologetic smile. “Maybe next time, eh?” George felt his shoulder sink. At this moment a loud thud filled the house, followed by a loud voice from downstairs.
“Oi, Macca! You there?!”
Paul's face lit up as he ran towards the staircase, whilst George watched him disappear through the door frame. A few moments later, the sound of familiar footsteps racing up the stairs echoed through the house. John burst into the room with his usual smug look and a broad smile, followed shortly by Ringo.
“It's bloody freezing outside,” Ringo muttered.
John threw himself onto Paul’s bed. “Alright mate?” he said, nodding at George. “What’s that you’re holding?”
This caught George off guard.
“Oh, em… just something I was messing around with last night," answered George. Suddenly, he no longer liked the idea of sharing his song with the rest of the band. John shrugged and went back to messing around with Paul, while Ringo brushed the rain off his jacket.
To distract himself, George tuned his guitar, but he couldn't focus. The only thing that held his attention was the way Paul giggled at John's jokes.
George felt a tightness in his chest, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.