Chapter Text
Paul was supposed to be asleep but he didn’t bother. It was raining buckets outside, and Paul never slept when it rained. It was too meditative, and he liked the sounds the rainstorm made against his window. His eyes felt heavy and kept drifting closed. He lay still, listening to the rain, until it felt like the silence in the house was getting too loud. He pattered quietly out of his bedroom and down the stairs into the living room.
The family piano lay there against the wall, glowing beautifully in the moonlight. Paul had seen loads of family pianos when staying in other people’s homes, but this one was always his personal favourite. It wasn’t perfect by any means; it was old, dusty, and wooden brown, but it was beautiful. He felt an accustomed sort of possessiveness loom over him for the piano. He sat on the stool, hearing the familiar creak under his weight. It echoed throughout the house and seemed to ooze onto the walls. Paul took it as a sign to put the soft pedal on, which he did. He began playing around with a jazzy-like tune that had been stuck in his head for a little while.
Suddenly, he heard something being hit against the window, and his first thought was, 'Is it really hailing? The weather’s that bad? Maybe that means it’ll snow this year. It hasn’t snowed in ages.' Paul ran over to the window, but instead of surveying potential snow, he locked eyes with his best mate, George Harrison. He ran to the front door as quietly and as fast as he could and opened it.
“George?! I don’t know if ya can tell, but it’s raining cats and dogs out here, mate.”
George lowered his arm and dropped a rock onto the pavement. He ran to Paul and clambered inside into the living room without asking. Paul, unfazed, closed the front door and followed him, grabbing a towel from the linen closet on his way.
“I found out from Louise— y’know my sister— that— thanks,” George began before being interrupted by a towel being chucked in his direction. Paul sat back down on the piano stool as he watched his friend dry his face and hair. He turned on the lamp by the piano, and it lit the room up dimly. He could tell something was ruffling George’s feathers, but he didn’t seem properly mad. Just mildly frustrated, maybe?
George sat down on the sofa and tried to glare at Paul, but it wasn’t intimidating, as his hair was all fluffy now and made him look even younger than he already was.
“I found out from my sister that me best mate— that’s supposed to be you by the way— is disappearing off to church camp for the whole summer.”
“George—”
“And, AND you’re leaving in two days! Couldn’t care enough to tell me, Paulina?”
“Shuddup, don’t call me that,” Paul said, turning his back on George as if he was talking to an especially dim child. He tried to remember what chords he was playing.
“I’ll call ye whatever I want, you prick, since ye don’t call— that’s a nice tune, that.” George hovered behind him suddenly, and Paul felt a strange pang of uneasiness at the praise.
“It’s, uhh, in D flat major, I think.”
“Why the fuck would I know what that means?”
“W-well I—I don’t know what it means, my dad says—”
“PAUL. You’re tryna distract me from the issue at hand here.”
“George, I—” Paul sighed. “I didn’t know how to tell ye, mate. I knew you’d be pissed, and ye are.” He got up and gently shoved George back to the sofa while muttering under his breath about getting the piano wet. He nicked a blanket from the other sofa and threw it over himself and George, who immediately stole the entire blanket off Paul. He sighed internally and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the exposed part of George’s ankle.
“I know you're not into the religious scene, despite my attempts. But I haven’t been as close to God lately as I’d like to be, y’know, and I kept putting it off telling ya. I don’t want to be that ‘stereotypical church boy that abandons all his friends because he doesn’t need anyone else’. I didn’t want to make it sound like I was choosing it over ya.” He left George’s foot alone and wrung his hands, staring at them before facing his friend again.
George stretched like a cat and jostled his way onto the blanket he’d stolen. His feet found their way into Paul’s lap, and Paul stopped wringing his hands and absent-mindedly massaged George’s instead. He hadn’t realised George had taken his shoes off at the door, but his feet were freezing. He remembered the story about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet and relaxed more. George seemed to relax too because he gave Paul some of the blanket and went still. After a couple of minutes, Paul thought he was asleep.
“If you're asleep in another minute, I'm carrying you upstairs, Georgie”
“I’m not a baby, Paul.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. C’mon old man.” Paul heaved him off his feet and led him upstairs to his bed. George’s cold, wet shirt seemed to cling to him now, so Paul offered him his spare pyjamas.
“Are— are these Christian pyjamas?” George stifled a giggle.
“Don’t even right now, they’re just crosses. Nobody knows what to give the church boy during Christmas.”
They both tucked into bed, Paul facing George and George on his back with his arms crossed. Paul couldn’t hide his grin.
“Wow, you really are an old man.”
“Shuddup”
A few comfortable moments passed and both their breathing slowed. Paul thought George was asleep, but he couldn’t tell because his eyes were closed.
“For the record, you’re not a stereotypical church boy. I know you couldn’t possibly live without me, you twat.”
“Thanks, Georgie. As much as I love Him, I’ll never dump people for God. My faith matters to me, but I still care about people, you included. You can love God without—”
“Paul, mate, I know. You don’t have to convince me, yeah?”
“Yeah. Sorry. For y’know”
“I know. It’s alright, but don’t do that shit again”
“I won’t. Goodnight, Georgie”
“Goodnight, Paulina”
“Oh for fuck’s sake! You wanker”
“How un-church-boy of you. What would God think?”
“I’d think He’d understand me”
“What the Hell”