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George knows Paul's arrived before he even looks up. There's a shift in the room—something in the air that changes when Paul walks in, like the temperature drops or the light adjusts itself. George keeps his eyes on his guitar, fingers moving over the strings in a pattern that's more nervous habit than actual playing.
“Mornin’,” Paul says, and there's a chorus of greetings back. Ringo's voice, a couple of the crew. George adds his own, quieter than the rest, and finally lets himself glance over.
Paul's adjusting his coat and shoving his hands in his pockets, hair still damp from the cold outside. He looks tired. They all do, this far into the sessions, but Paul wears it differently—still put together, still in control. George watches him hang the jacket over a chair back, watches the way his hands smooth down his shirt front, and feels something tighten in his chest.
“Do you want to hear a song I wrote last night?”
The words come out before George can think better of them. Too eager, he hears it in his own voice, that desperate edge he can never quite hide when it comes to Paul, and he wants to take it back immediately. But Paul's already turning toward him, eyebrows lifting slightly, and George is caught in it now.
Paul nods. Doesn't say anything, just nods, and George feels his face go hot.
“It's just a very short one,” he says quickly, looking down at his guitar. His fingers find the strings again, something to do with his hands. "It's called 'I Me Mine.'"
He doesn't wait for Paul to respond. If he waits, he'll lose his nerve entirely, so he just starts playing. The opening chords fill the space, and George keeps his head down, eyes fixed on the paper in his lap with the lyrics scrawled across it. His handwriting looks messy in the studio light, words crossed out and rewritten, and he wishes suddenly that he'd copied it out neater, made it look more professional.
But he's playing now, singing, and he can feel them all listening. Ringo's gone still beside him. The crew have stopped whatever they were doing. And Paul—Paul's standing there, and George can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing, pressing against his skin.
All through the day, I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.
His voice sounds thin to his own ears. The song's strange, he knows that, the waltz time signature odd and lurching, but it had felt right last night when he'd played it alone. Now, with everyone watching, it feels exposed, vulnerable. Like he's showing them something he shouldn't. George keeps his eyes on the paper. If he looks up, if he sees Paul's face, he'll know immediately whether this is shit or not, and he's not ready for that yet. So he just plays through to the end, the final chord ringing out into silence.
The silence stretches. George's heart is hammering against his ribs, and he finally lets himself look up.
Paul's watching him. His face is unreadable, that careful blankness he gets sometimes when he's thinking, and George feels his stomach drop. He fucked it up. The song's too weird, too different, too real, not what they need right now—
Paul nods. Just once, a small movement, and then he's smiling, and George can breathe again.
Paul walks over. George watches him come closer, every step deliberate, and then Paul's right there, leaning down over George's shoulder to read the lyrics. He's close enough that George can smell him—cigarettes and something else, soap maybe, or cologne. Close enough that George can feel the warmth of him, the solid presence of his body just inches away. George tries to act normal. He holds the paper steady, keeps his breathing even, but his hands want to shake and he has to concentrate to keep them still. Paul's reading, eyes moving over the words, and George is hyperaware of every point where they're almost touching. Paul's arm near his shoulder. Paul's breath stirring the air between them.
They both know. That's the thing—they both know how close they are, how deliberate this is. Paul could've asked to see the paper, could've had George hand it over, but instead he's leaning over him like this, invading George's space in a way that makes George's skin prickle with awareness.
“All right,” Paul says finally, and his voice has that tone. The one that means he likes something, that means approval, and George feels it land in his chest like something warm and solid. “All right, yeah.” Paul straightens up, steps back, and George can breathe properly again. The loss of Paul's proximity is almost painful, but the approval—that stays, settling into George's bones like relief.
“We can work on it,” Paul adds, already moving away, already thinking ahead to arrangements and recording, and George just nods. He doesn't trust his voice right now.
Ringo catches his eye and grins, and George manages a small smile back. His hands are still shaking slightly on the guitar neck.
A bit later, George plays it for John.
The four of them are standing in a close circle, George adjusting his guitar, Paul and Ringo there to listen again, and John's there too with that look on his face already. The one that says he's ready to take the piss, ready to find the joke in whatever George's about to do. George knows that look. He's seen it a thousand times, and it never stops making his stomach clench with anxiety.
But he plays anyway. Same opening chords, same waltz time, and he's barely into the first verse when John starts.
“Run along, son. See you later,” John says in an exaggerated posh accent, all nasal and affected, and someone laughs. George keeps playing, jaw tight, but John's not done. “This is a rock 'n’ roll band, y'know.”
The mockery in his voice is casual, easy, like he's not even trying. Like dismissing George takes no effort at all. George's fingers stumble over a chord and he stops playing for a second, the sudden silence loud in his ears before he starts again, playing it off as him looking at the lyrics and not the fact that John’s words had gotten to him.
George finishes, looking up at John. “I don't—” George starts, and his voice comes out wrong, too defensive. “I don't— I don't care if you don't want it.”
John raises his eyebrows, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He's enjoying this. He always enjoys this, pushing at George until something breaks.
“I don't give a fuck. It can go in me musical," George adds, trying for playful or casual and landing somewhere near bitter, and he’s already returned to his Guitar.
John just laughs, short and sharp, but hasn't moved on, because John Lennon never knows when to drop something.
George hears footsteps, and then John's there, walking back toward him, and George's stomach does something complicated. He looks up before he can stop himself, and there it is again—that stupid, pathetic hope flaring in his chest. Maybe John's thought better of it. Maybe he's coming back to say something about the song, something real, something that isn't just taking the piss. John stops in front of him. George is still holding his guitar, fingers resting against the strings, and he's aware suddenly of how he must look—standing here, looking at John like he's waiting for something. Which he is. Christ, he is.
“George,” John says, and there's something in his voice that makes George's pulse quicken. Not kindness, exactly. Not approval either, but attention, at least. John's looking at him properly now, not through him, and George feels himself lean into it without meaning to.
Then John tilts his head, and the smirk comes back.
“Have you any idea what we play?”
The question lands like a slap. George's face goes hot, and for a second he can't breathe properly. This isn’t dismissal, and George doesn’t really know what it is but he knows it's worse than that. It's John telling him he doesn't belong, that he doesn't understand what they're doing, that his song is so far off the mark it's laughable. And John's standing there waiting for an answer, eyebrows raised, like he genuinely wants to know if George has a clue.
George opens his mouth. He doesn't know what he's going to say—something defensive, probably, something that'll make him sound even more pathetic—but before he can get the words out, someone calls his name.
“George?”
It's one of the crew, voice cutting across the studio, and George's head snaps toward the sound. The bloke's holding up a hand, gesturing. “Can we just borrow that copy? The song?”
George stares at him. His brain feels slow, still caught on John's question, on the way John's looking at him like he's waiting for George to prove himself and already knows he can't. The crew member's waiting, though, and George has to respond, has to turn away from John even though the conversation isn't finished, even though John's still standing there.
“Yeah,” George says, and his voice comes out rough. “Yeah, just— give us a minute.”
He's caught between them. John in front of him, close enough that George can see the way his mouth curves, the way his eyes are still assessing through his glasses. The crew member across the room, needing something from him, pulling his attention away. And George is stuck in the middle, guitar in his hands, John's question still ringing in his ears.
Have you any idea what we play?
George doesn't look back up at John. He can't. If he does, John will see it all over his face; the hurt, the anger, the desperate wanting that George can never quite bury deep enough. So he keeps his eyes down, fingers moving over the strings in a pattern that means nothing, and waits for John to walk away, which he does eventually. John shakes his head and turns away, the conversation over.
George finds the nearest chair and sits there with his guitar in his lap, the same guitar he'd played for Paul earlier, the same song that had made Paul nod and smile and say all right in that tone. The same song that had made Paul lean close enough that George could feel the heat of him. And now John's waving him off like he's a child who's interrupted the adults. The way he always does. The way he did when George 15-years-old and the way he still does now.
George's hands tighten on the guitar neck. He wants to say something else, something cutting that'll make John look at him properly, make John take him seriously for once. But the words don't come, and anyway John's already talking to someone else, already moved on like George isn't even there. The worst part is how much it still matters. Paul's approval had felt good—Christ, it had felt better than good, it had felt necessary—but John's dismissal somehow cuts deeper. Maybe because John's always been harder to please, always been the one George has to chase after. Paul gives him scraps of validation and George is pathetic enough to be grateful for them, but John doesn't even give him that much.
George looks down at his lyrics again. The same words that Paul had leaned over to read, close enough that George had felt dizzy with it. The same words John just laughed at.
I me mine, I me mine, I me mine.
His own handwriting stares back at him, and George feels something hot and uncomfortable in his throat. Anger, maybe. Or humiliation. Or just the same desperate wanting that never seems to go away no matter how many times John cuts him down or Paul offers him those careful, controlled moments of attention. He wants them both to take him seriously. He wants them both to see him as an equal, not as the kid guitarist they reluctantly let into the band. He wants—
But it doesn't matter what he wants. John's already forgotten about him, and Paul's across the room talking to someone else, and George is just sitting here with his guitar and his stupid song that isn’t good enough for a rock ‘n’ roll band.
He plays the opening chords again, quietly, just for himself this time. The melody still sounds right to him, even if John thinks it's shit. Even if Paul's approval came with that careful distance, that controlled kindness that never quite turns into anything more.
George plays, and he doesn't look up to see if either of them are watching.
He already knows they're not.