Work Text:
New York, August 1965
The headline was stupid.
“THE FAT BEATLE?”
“Is John Lennon letting success go to his stomach?”
It was in one of the cheap, obscure gossip rags in the restaurant, on the news stand by the front counter. John saw it when they walked in, but he only laughed loudly.
“Fat Beatle, eh? Cheeky bastards,” he remarked casually as he flicked the paper with the back of his hand. Paul and Ringo laughed right along with him as they all slid into the booth, though George kept quiet.
Paul was already talking about a new chord progression, Ringo listening dutifully as he tapped his fingers on the counter. The headline was forgotten, and nobody noticed that John only ordered a tea and a tiny starter salad.
Nobody, except George.
John pushed his food around. Took two bites of tomato. Left his coat on even though it was warm. Kept his arms crossed.
“Not hungry?” Paul asked, lazily looking up from his own meal.
“Not really,” John said, and smiled. The type of smile that meant don’t ask again.
Ten minutes later he mumbled, “Bathroom” and got up. George only waited 30 seconds before he got up to follow.
The men’s room was small and dingy, and colder than the dining area of the restaurant due to the air con. John was standing in front of the mirror turned to the side, his coat off now, thrown on the floor carelessly. His button-down shirt was untucked, and he had one hand on his stomach, eyes fixed on it. His glasses were off. He looked younger like that. And tired.
“John?”
John jumped, obviously not having heard George come in. He quickly stood straighter, then tried to laugh it off. “Jesus, Georgie. You trying to give me a heart attack?”
George shut the door, and made sure to lock it to prevent disturbance. “You alright?”
“Brilliant. Never better. In fact, I’m thriving,” John tried sound sarcastic, but it came out wrong: his voice cracked, and he just sounded drained.
George didn’t laugh. He just leaned against the sink next to him. “I saw the paper too.”
“I don’t care what a dumb paper says.”
“Liar.”
John’s jaw tightened as he stared at his reflection. “It’s nothing. They say worse every week. I’m fine.”
“Then why aren’t you eating?” George asked, the annoyance in his tone not quite masking his concern. “Why’d you go pale when Richie asked you what you wanted to order earlier?”
John let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. “Because I’m being dramatic, that’s why. It’s one stupid headline.”
“It’s not stupid if it hurts.”
That made John look at him. George wasn’t trying to mock him, he didn’t think John was overreacting. He was just... there. Serious for once. Eyes on John, not on the mirror.
“You don’t have to pretend,” George said gently, as if talking to a spooked animal. “Not with me.”
John’s throat bobbed. “Don’t make it a thing, George.”
“It’s already a thing,” George mumbled as he reached out and, ever so carefully, tugged John’s shirt down so it sat right. His hand lingered a second on John’s side, the warmth of his palm seeping through shirt fabric. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re fat. I think you’re you. And you’re alright... more than alright, actually.”
John scoffed. “Don’t be a sap.”
“Yeah, well,” George shrugged, a tiny smile gracing his lips, “someone’s gotta be.”
John stared at the floor, the sound of the pipes dripping filling the sudden silence between them. Then he spoke. “I just... I spend all day being looked at. And if they start picking me apart, what’s left?”
George shifted so he was facing him properly, bumping his shoulder against John’s. “What’s left is you. Writing songs that make people feel less alone. The way you pull ridiculous faces that make us all laugh.”
“And for the record,” he added after a moment, softer, “I like you. All of you. Even the bits you think are wrong.”
John looked up. Their eyes met in the mirror first, then properly.
“George...”
“I mean it, John.”
Something in John cracked. Not broke, just cracked open. He stepped forward into George’s space, the already cramped bathroom feeling even smaller suddenly, suffocating him. Or maybe it was just the younger man’s presence that made John feel like something was creeping into his airways, restricting his breaths. George didn’t move back, so John took that as a sign to close to distance and join their lips.
It wasn’t big. It was chaste and shaky and a little uncertain, right there in a cold, dirty bathroom with the many sounds of the restaurant on the other side of the door.
When they pulled back, John’s eyes were wide, and maybe a little fearful. “Did we just─”
“Yeah,” George said, his ears turning a very noticeable shade of red. “We did.”
John let out a shaky laugh and pressed his forehead to George’s. “Christ. The fat Beatle gets the quiet one.”
“You’re not fat,” George said immediately. Then, quieter, “if it were up to me, you’d be known as the smart Beatle.”
John smiled, wide and real this time. But the pair were pulled from their little bubble when a knock came on the bathroom door. “You two alive in there or what?”
At the sound of Paul’s voice, they both sprung apart, as if scared of being caught too close even though they knew the door was locked and Paul couldn't enter.
“Coming!” George called quickly, before he looked back at John. “You okay?”
John nodded as he took a steadying breath. “Yeah. I think I am.”
John washed his face and cleared his throat before he and George walked out together. He still didn’t eat much, but he did have some of George’s chips when offered.
The four finished their respective meals, Paul rambling about harmonies (ever the workaholic) while the other three ate in relative silence. The tiresome day of interviews and promoting their new album was clearly catching up to them, especially Ringo, who looked half-asleep right there at the table.
Once they finished eating, they left the restaurant and hopped inside the waiting car that would take them back to the hotel. The ride back was quiet. Unusually quiet for the usually loud group of boys.
Ringo fell immediately asleep against the window. Paul sat beside him, humming a half-formed tune. John and George resigned themselves to sit beside eachother, the air between them charged and slightly awkward. John stared straight ahead. George fidgeted with his hands.
They got to the hotel and took the lift up to their floor, before saying goodnight and dividing in two pairs. Paul and Ringo entered to room 12, while John and George continued a little further down the hall until they made it to room 14.
As soon as the door clicked shut, John immediately went to the mini-bar and poured himself a rum and coke. He didn’t even look at George as he spoke, voice too bright to be natural. “Long day, eh?”
George took his coat off slowly and chucked it on the chair by the desk, narrowing his eyes. “Right.”
John shuffled nervously as he took a sip of his drink, fully aware of George’s eyes on him. Not much time had passed until he couldn't seem to take the silence any longer.
“I just...” John ran a hand through his hair. “What happened in the bathroom... it was nothing. You know that, right? I was just upset, you were there. Comfort, you know? Mates look out for each other. And you’re... y’know, one of my best mates.”
George stopped. “Is that what that was?”
“Yeah, ’course,” John finally looked at him and forced a smile. “Don’t get ideas, George. I’m not... not a queer.”
The word queer landed wrong.
George’s face went still. Then he grabbed his cigarettes off the dresser. “I need air.”
He went out to the small balcony and shut the sliding door harder than he meant to. John stood there for about three seconds before the guilt hit him like a brick.
Comfort. Best mates.
Like that kiss had meant nothing to him. Like George’s hand on his side, lips on his, meant nothing.
“Shit,” John muttered as he practically tripped over himself to follow George out.
It was warmer outside, uncomfortably so. George was leaning on the railing, cigarette burning down between his fingers but not smoking it, as if he was too caught up in his thoughts to remember it was there.
Before John could speak, George beat him to it without turning around. “Don’t. Don’t try and make some bullshit excuse, John.”
“I wasn’t going to.” He definitely was.
“You kissed me back,” George snapped, interrupting him. He turned then, and he looked angry. “In the bathroom. You kissed me back. And now it’s ‘nothing’ because you got scared?”
John flinched. “I didn’t say─”
“You did, at least with your words,” George said as he took a step closer. “But your hands, your face, the way you looked at me... that said something else. So which is it? Because I can’t do both.”
John’s chest was tight. He so desperately wanted George, but he was ashamed, ashamed of who he was, of being gay. He couldn't be with George no matter how much he wanted to, because everyone would know, and then they’d hate him and lose respect for him. With the amount of cameras in his face these days, some reporter would find out and it’d be all over every headline.
John felt stupid to explain his worries like that, though. The reason he couldn’t be with George was because he was terrified.
But the years and years he’d been telling himself to be normal, to hide his sexuality, were reduced to nothing as he looked up and into George’s eyes, full of despondency and confusion.
“I don’t know how to do this,” John said, voice low and honest, being vulnerable in a way he had never been before in front of George. “I don’t know how to be... this. With you. And not lose everything.”
George’s anger softened, just a bit. “You won’t lose anything, least of all me. Not if you try, Johnny.”
John exhaled sharply, staring at George’s mouth for a little more than ten seconds, before reaching out and grabbing the front of his shirt, tugging him in.
This kiss wasn’t shaky or careful like their first. It was frustrated and scared and full of mutual want, and it landed hard. Their mouths met clumsily as their lips struggled to properly connect, years of pretending getting shoved out of the way.
George made a noise in the back of his throat and kissed back just as hard, hands coming up to grip John’s shoulders. John’s own hands tangled in George’s hair, and he wedged his tongue between George’s lips, the younger man opening up easily for him.
They didn’t break apart when John stood up suddenly, and urged George to do the same with a light tug to his brown locks. The pair stumbled back inside, John kicking the door shut behind them. They kept going, stumbling from the warm balcony into the cool room, past the dresser, until they hit the edge of the bed and went down together. All they were focused on was eachother, the kiss urgent and grounding.
When they finally pulled back for air, foreheads pressed together, John was shaking slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what I said earlier, and for being a coward.”
George brushed his thumb over John’s cheek. “Don’t be sorry. Just... don’t hide away anymore. You can talk to me, and Paul and Ringo too, you should know that.”
John nodded, unable to find the words to speak yet. He just stayed there in George’s arms, on their shared bed, with the city outside and no headlines to tell him who to be or what he was.