George slowly opened his eyes, yawning and stretching his hands over his head. It was still night out and he'd fallen asleep in the tour bus, the old engine thumping its way through the British countryside, headlights shoving the darkness aside to make way for the heavily loaded vehicle. He felt Ringo curled up against him, deep asleep, the side of his face pressing against George's shoulder. He didn't mind. Ringo and he had grown close since Hamburg although they hadn't slept with one another again after that one night they shared. George had been confused by then, trying to figure things out, and Ringo had been there for him. Neither he nor the drummer had brought it up since and their friendship had remained intact. 

George looked around the bus, dark eyes focusing on John and Paul huddled closely together a few seats in front of him. He pursed his lips, jealousy making him frown before he could catch himself, sighing. George figured they were probably still working on that song, Seventeen. He thought that what they had was pretty good but they rarely seemed to care about what he, or anyone else for that matter, thought. George knew his mates had a good writing partnership and that it was prolific for the band, but he felt awfully left out. Paul used to be his best mate and John had been... well. George wasn't sure of what term to use when it came to describing what John had been to him but anyway he felt that the both of them were far too preoccupied with one another to pay him any sort of attention. He didn't like it but he didn't see what he could do to put an end to it, his attempts at joining the writing duet having been rebuked so far. 

George slipped out of his seat, careful not to wake Ringo, and walked over to his mates, sitting down in the empty seat across from them. "Still working on that song?" he asked curiously, trying to sound casual. He pulled out his pack of ciggies from his coat pocket and tucked one between his lips, lighting it. John was so engrossed in the writing of the song he barely noticed George sitting there, myopic eyes narrowed against the harshness of the small light shining upon the stubborn guitar tabs sketchily sprawling on the strip of paper they used. 

Paul was better-behaved and he smiled up to George. "Yeah. Got a bit of trouble with the bridge. But Johnny's going to figure it out, hey?" Paul patted John's head playfully, making him snort and bat his hand away. George looked down, blowing out a cloud of smoke into the somewhat stale air of the bus, suddenly suffocating to him. John hadn't even bothered to look into his direction and to acknowledge his presence but George hid his disappointment with an easygoing smile. "Sure. I'm good at figuring yer bullshit out, Paul," John drawled with a smirk, looking up and seemingly finally noticing his mate smoking in front of them. 

George studied his friends, trying to make his dark eyes appear more tired and dull than he actually felt, so that neither Paul nor John, who'd proven to be quite perceptive, would catch on. He'd picked up on the fact that they'd grown quite close since they'd began to write together, leading George to wonder if something was going on between them. If that was the case though, neither of them had let on anyway, leaving George completely in the dark on that aspect of their friendship. He looked away from them once again, turning his head to glance at Ringo, the drummer still sound asleep and curled in his seat, his mouth slightly agape. 

John looked back to the music sheet and then outside although it was so dark he couldn't see a thing, the dusty window sending back the image of his mate sitting there, looking pale and drawn and so fucking handsome. He refused to meet George's eyes for a few seconds before he realised he was being stupid, leaning in to steal his pack and take a ciggie. "You done cuddling with Ringo, then?" He said, trying to sound more amused than anything, making Paul chuckle good-naturedly and nudge him in the ribs. 

George laughed but it sounded forced even to his own ears. John often took minor swipes at him about Ringo, but in a manner that would appear like playful ribbing to anyone that didn't know better. "Honeymoon's not over yet," he winked, meeting John's eyes for a moment. They always looked smaller when he wore his glasses but they were still of that lovely hazel colour he adored. John snorted, sending his mate a grin, looking at him in the eyes and purposefully ignoring the warmth spreading inside of him when he realised George and he were joking with each other again, awkwardness aside.

George finished his ciggie, opening the window and tossing it out, letting a gust of wind rush over his face and run through his hair before he shut it, cheeks cold. His hair was in complete disarray now but he couldn't care less. There was no one on the bus to take their pictures, after all. "Can I have my ciggies back?" he asked, looking at John expectantly, making him smile. "Sure," he gave George his pack, looking at him and chuckling, unable to resist the urge to reach out and flatten his mate's hair. "All in a ruffle, you are," he said quietly, gently smoothing down George's hair, fingers slipping through the soft strands and making him panic for a while, as if he would never be able to stop touching George now that he'd made the mistake to start.

"Oi!" George laughed, trying to sound put out and failing rather painfully. He couldn't remember the last time they'd been this close without him feeling completely awkward about it. Paul saved them both from an uneasy moment, cooing and moving to sit next to George, petting his hair as well, making funny faces. "Oh John, yer such a mother hen! But 't's true, lil' Georgie should comb his hair more often!" He clucked, making John snort and withdraw, grinning.

George tried to swat Paul's hands away but the bassist wouldn't let up until he'd messed his hair completely. "Much better," he nodded with a grin and rejoined John, ready to resume working on the song. George looked at his reflection in the window and fixed his hair somewhat before turning his attention back to his mates. He felt left out again, and stood up. "Should be getting back to the wife," he said jokingly, hoping one of them (preferably John) would ask him to stay.

"Mn," John hummed, ignoring George once more, his eyes riveted to the music sheet. Not that the song was so interesting, it was a bit of a drag really, being stuck that way with Paul huffing and pouting prettily at his side, but it was still better than watching his mate sit there dejectedly, ruffled and tired. If he'd wanted to be completely honest with himself, John would have had to admit that part of the reason he was so engrossed in writing songs with Paul was because it kept his mind busy, off George and the rest of his problems, Cyn and Brian, lately. Oh, he liked it as well, composing with Paul was pretty good, thrilling and a real challenge, and yet that wasn't all there was to it. But John didn't want to be honest with himself.

"Best wishes!" Paul stated with a grin, batting his eyelashes at George while John gave a chuckle, waving at him with his eyes still on the music sheet. "Hope yer kids won't have Ringo's nose and yer ears," he teased, smirking when Paul nudged him in the ribs reprovingly, rolling his eyes. George laughed because he didn't know what else to do, walking away from the pair back to the seat he shared with Ringo. The sleeping drummer instinctively pressed back against him and mumbled in his sleep, but didn't wake up. George sighed and closed his eyes, trying to forget about John and Paul hunching over that music sheet, sharing something he could never hope for. 

"I think maybe it should be A flat at this moment," Paul said, humming the melody under his breath. "What do you think?" He looked up when there was no reply. "John?" John didn't think anything of it. He'd made the mistake of looking up to watch George leave -narrow body sleepily making its way back to the seats he shared with Ringo, cuddling back against him- and now, the only thing he could think about was the cloyingly sweet way George had said I've been with Ringo, you know, when John had put an end to their so-called relationship, jealousy making heat raise to his face, snorting.

Paul blinked, frowning a little. "You don't like it?" He barely managed to catch John's eyes, darkened with something heavy he did not understand. "Hey, what's up?" He asked carefully, surprised by the sudden change of mood. John was often like that, mercurial by nature, going from goofy excitement to touchy bitterness in seconds and Paul had learnt to cope with it, but that time had taken him by surprise. "Nothing," John shrugged. "Juss tired an' fed up with it." Paul nodded prudently and folded the music sheet, putting it away. "All right, we can finish it another time, sleep on it, right?" John didn't say anything, almond eyes staring at the darkness outside, burning oddly in the weak light.

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George's black eye was bothering him and he repeatedly rubbed it, letting out a tired yawn. The Beatles had played a show last night at The Cavern and during a break in their set, George had gone outside to have a smoke, as he usually did. He'd walked back in, down the darkened staircase that led to the main room and had been, out of the blue, head-butted by someone.

John and Paul had ribbed him about it the next morning while the four of them were on their way to record their first album at EMI studios. A photographer was going to be there and they thought it was pretty funny that George would have a black eye in all of his pictures. Way to promote that clean-cut image Brian has created for us, George. He couldn't remember which one of them had said it, John and Paul were beginning to sound an awful lot alike to George these days.

Ringo on the other hand didn't give him a hard time about it. He remarked that it made George look tough and just the thing they needed to balance their new image. George knew he was only saying that to make him feel better about it, but still he appreciated it. After they'd taken what felt like a never ending series of promotional photographs, they got down to practising the songs they'd be recording for their album.

George was nervous, he knew they were on a limited amount of time and that this had to get done today. They'd already recorded a handful of songs and had taken an hour of break, having lunch at the recording studio. Then it was back to work because George Martin ran a tight ship. They were set to sing John and Paul's song I Saw Her Standing There, formerly titled Seventeen. George thought it was the best tune on the album. He and John were to share a mic for this one, while Paul sang into his own. He slipped the strap of his Gretsch over his back and stepped up next to John, waiting for Paul to count them in.

George mostly tried to ignore what being that so close to John did to him, but it was rather a difficult thing to do. He would always have a strong reaction to John's proximity, his body warming up, hands growing cold and clammy, his stomach churning. He didn't think he had much of an effect on John though, he appeared to be cool and ready to start up the next song in this marathon recording session. He looked away from him, not wanting that damned photographer to catch him staring at John, his camera picking up something that had been a secret for more than a year, now.

It was hard not to stare at John though, he looked rather handsome in his black slacks, crisp white shirt and black tie. They were all wearing the same thing but George just thought there was something about the way John wore it that looked quite appealing. His hair was combed nice and neat but he refused to wear his glasses and have his picture taken in them. George thought that was too bad because John looked quite good in them to him. 

After a few takes of I Saw Her Standing There George Martin called in for a break, noticing that the boys were beginning to look a little tired. John breathed out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat pearling on his forehead with the sleeve of his elegant suit, ignoring the frown on Brian's face. He shoot a smile to the photographer still hovering around, too goofy to even look close to believable, sliding the strap of his guitar from above his shoulder and getting out as fast as he could, mumbling something about having a ciggie.

This marathon recording session was a nightmare. Not that John wasn't used to play for long hours, they'd done quite a lot of that back in Hamburg, but they had been performers back then, improvising and switching between songs, not fucking parrots singing the same tune over and over again until Martin, Eppy of fucking Paul McCartney thought it was perfect enough. He sighed heavily, combing his damp hair back on his forehead. That hadn't even been the worse. They'd been at I Saw Her Standing There for nearly an hour now, and for this whole time, John had had to share a microphone with George.

He swallowed dryly, his jaw clenching as he struggled against a wave of arousal at the memory of George standing there all right, dark hair a little matted to his forehead, eyes black and bruised and fucking staring at John, trying to be discreet about it and yet so painfully obvious. John had a better poker face than the lad, thank God, but he'd very barely managed to stay cool and casual. George just had a way to let his dark eyes trail down his body, to lean a little too close while they were singing, to grin to him whenever their eyes met that drove John crazy. Not to mention his elegant fingers splayed on the strings skilfully and the musky scent of his sweat as the recording went on, a scent that John remembered all-too-well smelling and tasting upon George's skin during their trysts. 

He was fucked, and in more ways than one. His wedding to Cyn hadn't brought any special kind of distraction or even any will to do right by her as he'd hoped (yes, he was just that much of a bastard), and there was no denying his attraction to George, now. John wasn't sure of what to make of it. He didn't feel that way for other blokes, and he certainly didn't like to be called queer but what was there between them, although despicable and wrong, undoubtedly existed. He heard George Martin call for him from the studio and sauntered back in with a chirpy "Coming, Henry!", killing his cigarette on the concrete floor and stepping back to his mic. 

George was already there and John made eye contact against his best judgement, desperate to re-establish at least an appearance of normality between them. He quite liked George, after all. The lad was his mate and a nice bloke, in spite of everything else. "All right, then?" He prompted awkwardly, raising his eyebrows and glaring at the photographer when he took a pic of them. "Got blisters on yer fingers already?" He grinned thinly, waiting for Paul to get ready to begin again.

"A couple," George replied tiredly, beginning to hate I Saw Her Standing There. "Not too bad though," he said, briefly looking at his fingers. John hummed, looking at his own fingers. "Eleventh time's the charm," George joked as Paul counted them in and began to sing. John flashed him a quick smile before joining in. At this point, they both went through the motions distractedly, the newness of recording an LP having pretty much worn off.

They moved toward the mic at the same time, their shoulders brushing together but George wouldn't allow himself to be distracted and be the cause of this song needing another take. He looked over at John and poked out his mouth more than necessary for the 'woo' part. He could tell his mate was fed up with this whole thing as well and just wanted to make him feel better. John chuckled, not loud enough to ruin the take though, waggling his eyebrows, looking at George's lips for just a second longer than he should have.

The eleventh time wasn't the charm unfortunately, but the thirteenth was certainly nice enough, much to everyone's relief. They only had one song to do now, carefully left at the end of the recording session for its well-known effect on John's vocal chords. The singer took a swig of the beer bottle he'd managed to sneak in while neither Brian nor George Martin was watching, snorting to some joke Paul had just made about Twist and Shout being his favourite song, John being pretty fucking nice once he couldn't speak anymore.

"Har-har," he mumbled, sending Paul a look that showed he was none too impressed really, just tired and drunk enough for the song, his voice raw with exertion and the numerous cigarettes he'd smoked through the day. He fidgeted at his microphone, looking up to see George do the same in front of him, apparently placed rather close so John could follow the main guitar part and the backup vocals. He got ready to yell in the mic, basically ripping his vocal chords out and not caring because, you know. It's for rock and roll's sake, mate.

He took a good breath, finished his beer and counted in, beginning to play and getting ready for it. He was about to start, focused and intent, when something odd happened. His eyes caught George's in front of him and while the look could have been pretty innocent and meaningless, for some reason, he couldn't look away. George's eyes were dark and wide, a little glossy with exhaustion and something about them just made John stare, locking eyes without really thinking about it, without really meaning to do so. Everything in the room seemed to zoom in on George's eyes, everything else disappeared and there was only warmth and darkness.

For a couple of seconds George thought John was looking at Paul standing next to him. It soon became clear that John was blatantly staring at him though, and George's face flushed red, taken aback by his mate's set gaze and very aware of the photographer still taking pictures. He couldn't understand why John was doing this but he managed to continue playing undisturbed, his fingers seemingly moving on their own, used enough to playing this when George was thinking about something completely different. The guitarist knew John's vocal chords would only allow them to get this in one take and he soon perked up to feed of John's energy and hopefully give back as much as he could.

"Well, shake it up baby now," John began, eyes set on George's. "Twist and shout! C'mon c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby now, come on and work it on out!" Paul was there as well but John just didn't see him, focused as he was on the song, eyes burning into George's.

His voice was raw and low, sounding wild and somewhat sexual, doing his best to convey the energy that rock and roll was supposed to be full of, the rebellion and the pain, the urge to live and destroy. "Well, work it on out, honey," he growled, not really realising how sultry and primal his voice sounded and how this could look to George or anyone that might have caught on. "You know you look so good..." He very nearly moaned the last word out and grinned. "You know you got me goin' now, just like I knew you would..."

George was all too familiar with that look John was giving him and he had to glance away for a while. It reminded him of Hamburg and all those times they'd shagged, John's eyes black, needy and somewhat unfocused with want. His cheeks felt burning and his whole body heated up considerably, beginning to sweat as his arousal for his mate slowly built up.

Paul suddenly bumped into George as he leaned closer for the back-up screaming that was supposed to be there and the moment broke. John blinked, hurriedly looking away, realising with a start that he was hot and sweaty now, and also a little hard, posh suit hopefully concealing the arousal stirring in his pants. He swallowed dryly and finished the song as good as he could, trying to keep the energy he had found, pent up desire and anger, breathing out a sigh of relief when they stopped and George Martin waved to him from the recording booth, apparently rather pleased with the way the song came out.

And then it was all over. John hurried out grumbling about his throat being sore and George rubbed the back of his neck, anxious and hoping no one had picked up on what he believed to have transpired between the two of them. He was left feeling rather dazed and a bit confused about what had just happened. It felt sort of like having one of those nights with John, without the actual sex. It felt like being burnt to the same flame that was John's desire but without any contact, any touch for it to be consummated.  

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Brian had filled the boys' schedule with interviews, signings, public appearances and photo shoots which left them with little free time. They took advantage of it whenever they could get some in between tour dates, and spent it how they pleased. George had decided to go with Ringo to the movies, the drummer set on seeing an epic western movie How the War was Won. It had been out "for ages", and Ringo, who was a big fan of westerns, had been itching to see the film for a while, now. They went unnoticed during their outing, never warranting much attention when they broke off into smaller numbers. It was a different story whenever the four of them were together, though.

They went back to the hotel in the early afternoon, Ringo returning to the room he was sharing with Paul while George stepped into the one he and John slept in. He wasn't sure of how that had worked itself out, considering it was usually him with Ringo and Paul with John, but he didn't complain about the room mate switch. He didn't mind sharing with John so much, honestly. Sure, there was still a little uneasiness between them here and there, but it was mostly all right these days. The only thing that was awkward to George was sharing a bed with John again. They had rather tried to avoid doing that since Hamburg.

The curtains were drawn over all the windows, making the room quite dark in spite of the spring sunlight outside. John was sitting in a chair next to a small table with a phone on it. George could tell he was upset, but he wasn't sure of whether he should ask why his mate looked so down. They were friends all right but things were different between the two of them, a little distant, awkward and cautious, and he didn't feel comfortable trying to comfort John. George had never truly felt comfortable doing so anyway, even before that whole mess in Hamburg had happened. John wasn't an especially open sort of bloke and George wasn't the type to push an issue, which caused plenty of things to be left unsaid between the two of them.

There was something different about John's demeanour this time though, and George felt compelled to ask about it. "You all right?" He asked, shrugging off his light jacket. The jacket was Ringo's, the drummer having allowed him to wear it when he'd become cold going out of the theatre "Everything all right with Cyn?" he tried, knowing that Cynthia was close to having the baby. 

John didn't look up when he heard George come in, able to tell that it was him just by the way his lithe body moved through the room, footsteps light over the cream carpet, hesitantly threading closer. He kept his eyes on the rug at his feet, giving a curt little nod, carefully not replying to the first question. "Cyn's all right. Baby's born. T's a boy," he stated briefly, feeling strangely out of it and unconcerned by the information. Shouldn't he be happy, ecstatic about it? John didn't feel anything special. He didn't know what to make of this, as if it were happening to someone else, only vaguely concerning him. 

"Name's Julian, as planned," he added with a snort. John though it was a bit soft for a boy but Cynthia had insisted it should at least be included in his names. John Charles Julian Lennon, most likely going to be called Julian. He raised his heavily-lidded almond eyes to meet George's, sending him a vague smile, blinking and sighing. How came he forgot how handsome George was all the time? Just so he could be painfully reminded every time he looked at him? He snorted to himself and got up, nervously pacing to the window, looking outside to the busy streets.

George sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling troubled by the 'good news' John had shared with him. He had been holding onto the hope that they could still have something between the two of them. Cynthia giving birth seemingly put an end to those thoughts. George wanted to be happy for his friend but he found that he couldn't, although to be fair, John himself didn't look so thrilled with the news of becoming a father, either.

"I feel..." John started, having no idea of how to finish, not even knowing why he had began telling George in the first place. There was nothing to say. John was not so big on sharing his feelings anyway, and especially not to the bloke he had sort of been pinning for since they'd first been to Hamburg. John's eyes widened a little. Where had that came from? He needed to get a grip on himself and focus on the matter at hand. Julian. Right. He turned around, looking at George uncertainly. "I'm a dad?" He said, trying to sound cheerful about it. "Ready to perpetuate the long line of annoying Lennon gits," he added with a snort, hiding himself behind harsh jokes as he usually did in such situations.

"Congratulations John," George found himself saying softly, feeling guilty for his own egoism, standing up with something resembling an enthusiastic smile on his face. He walked over to John and patted his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be a great dad," he assured, trying to be nice. He'd scarcely heard John mention a word about Cynthia's pregnancy or becoming a father.

John looked down to George's hand lightly resting on his shoulder and gave him a wary smile. "For what? Didn't have to do much, really." He looked back into the street, leaning imperceptibly closer to his mate, feeling a little relieved by his presence at his side. John swallowed dryly, his throat closing up with panic. He was not going to be a good father. He didn't want to play that part and he had no clue about how to play it. He didn't especially enjoy children on the whole, and never having had a dad, he was not even sure of what was expected of him anyway.

George squeezed his shoulder briefly and moved closer to him. He wasn't sure of what was the correct response to John being so down so he just stood next to him, not saying anything but hoping his mate would feel he was there for him. John looked up into George's dark eyes for just a second and nodded, giving his mate's shoulder a little squeeze in response, not comfortable enough to share his feelings but appreciating George's attempts at making him feel better. "Let's get drunk, uh?" He proposed, shrugging his jacket on, shooting his mate a snarky grin.

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The Beatles were going to the toppermost of the poppermost as John had predicated, and George reckoned he should have felt like he was on top of the world. He didn't. The band was touring the country, their popularity growing outside of the Mersey Beat scene, and he was learning that there was a downside to fame, lack of privacy being at the top of the list.

He pulled back the curtain of his bedroom window and looked down at the handful of fans standing in his front yard, (all teenage birds) waiting for a George Harrison sighting. He sighed, closing the curtain briskly and walking back over to his bed, sitting down.

George was feeling down, not up for entertaining fans at all. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that John had gone off on holiday with Brian. It didn't make a lick of sense to him. He figured John would have wanted to stay in Liverpool and spend his break with Cynthia and baby Julian (and maybe even with George himself), but apparently, being with their manager in an exotic locale was far more appealing to his mate.

It was no secret Brian was a homosexual. Well, he'd never said he was, but the boys had known from the beginning. They teased him about it once in a while, and sometimes made off colour remarks that would have Brian turn red in embarrassment. John was particularly nasty on the subject and George thought he had a good idea of why his friend felt the urge to be so mean.

John had ended things between the two of them because he wasn't queer though, and now he was off with Brian? George's feelings were hurt. Why did he even care anyway? He wasn't queer either! John was just his mate. They'd done some fooling around in Hamburg and a little bit in Liverpool but it was over, he reminded himself. George couldn't seem to move on, though.

He rested back against the headboard, tapping the eraser of his pencil against his plump bottom lip. He was staring at the open composition book on his lap. George had been attempting to write a song, first to see if he could, and also to take his mind from what John and Brian were up to. He made a conscious effort to write it about a girl but it was obvious to him that it wasn't the case. When he looked over the lyrics he'd written, it was clear that the song was about John.

George thought what he had was decent, he'd been working on this song all morning and well into the afternoon. It was no "Lennon and McCartney" composition, but he was hoping to get it onto the next album. He didn't want to sing whatever throwaway song John and Paul would write for him anymore. 

He set his notebook aside and grabbed his portable tape recorder from night stand. He was ready to record it and hear how it sounded played back. He placed the strap of his jumbo acoustic guitar over his back and turned on the recorder.

"Don't bother me. Take one," he stated, feeling a little silly. He strummed a simple chord progression he could build on. "Since she's been gone I want no one to talk to me. It's not the same but I'm to blame, it's plain to see. So go away, leave me alone, don't bother me," he sang, looking at the lyrics written down in the notebook.

"I can't believe that she would leave me on my own. It's just not right when every night I'm all alone. I've got no time for you right now, don't bother me." George abruptly stopped singing, wondering why he'd written a song about John. He pressed stop on the tape recorder. Nothing else would ever happen between the two of them again and he felt silly and angry at himself for having wasted so much time on that damn song. He couldn't bring himself to throw it away, though. He pressed the record button again. "Don't bother me, take two," he said dourly. 

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"What about this one?" John said, pointing towards a man sitting not too far from them at the terrace of the Gaudí café. He was young and had squinty eyes and a piggy nose, drinking his coffee with small, nervous sips. Just when Brian was about to reply, he gestured and swore loudly at a group of women passing by, letting out an obscene whistle and making the manager chuckle. "Hell no."

John raised an eyebrow in his direction, stretching in the morning sun, warm Spanish spring gentle on his naked arms "What, you like 'em polite?" Brian threw him a little look. "Not necessarily, no." John smirked and looked away. "How 'bout this one?" He asked, pointing towards a tall dark-haired man carrying a business case and hurriedly crossing the street in front of them, his suit a little ruffled. Brian sighed but still replied. "Possibly, yes," he agreed, looking at the man rather dispassionately and then back at John whose smirk had widened substantially. 

"Should I go an' ask him to join us for a cup of coffee?" John pretended to get up, making Brian tense nervously, gripping his arm. "John!" He hissed. "You can't do that! Not like that, not without knowing at least whether he'd get us in trouble or not!" John snorted but sat back down. "And how do you do that?" Brian looked at him carefully, gentle eyes very cautious. "I can usually tell." John's eyes narrowed behind his heavy glasses. "Really?" Brian nodded. "How?" The manager shrugged. "I don't know, it's a general feeling, I suppose. We usually understand each other quite well, so it's not too difficult to find out when talking to another man if he could be interested."

John leaned back in his chair with a disgusted pout, looking away, eyes cold. He enjoyed playing who-would-Brian-shag, but sometimes the latent homophobia he usually managed to overcome came back to hit him in the face. "This one looks a bit like George," Brian stated softly, pointing at a lanky lad with high cheekbones talking with a girl next to them. John's head turned so fast it almost snapped, making Brian jump. "John?" He asked, worried. Brian didn't know how to handle John. He didn't know what to expect from the man, easy and playful one second and deadly angry the next.

"You fancy George?" John asked, his voice very low. Brian merely shrugged. "I won't deny he is a handsome man but I know better than to place any hope in someone who will obviously never return my affection." Brian smiled tentatively. "Barking up the wrong three, as you would say," he stated with a chuckle. It didn't seem to deter John, though. "And yet, here we are," the musician stated, making Brian tense up and sigh. "Yes," he replied, and looked down. Sometimes even Brian didn't know better.

There was a minute of silence, deadly quiet in spite of the ramblas enveloping them in their buzzing noise and agitation. The weight of what had been half-confessed there was heavy on their shoulders, making the back of John's neck tingle warily.

"So," Brian said, finishing his lukewarm coffee and patting his lips with his napkin. "How about we finally go to the Sagrada Familia, John?" The musician shrugged. "Didn't come all the way there to see a bloody church," he grumbled. Brian paused, his hands gripping the paper napkin almost painfully. So why did you come? He let out a chuckle, shrugging. "It is not just any church. I think you will like it." John gave him a bored look and nodded, finishing his own coffee, making a face, and getting up.

- - -

John liked the Sagrada Familia and he hated it with a passion. It was huge, unbalanced bulky towers made of dirty stones, looking like it was about to melt and crumble on the floor, leaning heavily on one side like a tired monster. And yet, it was bloody brilliant. There was something graceful in the ugliness with which it stood, and something like entering a mad man's mind in the infinite loops of its stairs and convoluted architecture.

"What would you like to do tonight?" Brian asked, making John blink and snap out of his thoughts. He shrugged. "Don't know." Brian smiled kindly. "How about going to a club, dancing, does that sound good?" John shot him a grin, nodding. "To a fag joint." Brian chuckled. "Why? I don't even know the city so well." John smirked a little. "Oh, but surely someone home would have made a few suggestions to you..." Brian smiled and relented. "As a matter of fact, they have."

- - -

Brian followed John through the corridor leading to their hotel room, hair a little ruffled and eyes glazed with the brandy they had drunk earlier at the club. "I was surprised that you brought back... what you brought back in the cab," he stated, British accent making him sound even more careful than the already cautious tone of his voice. John let out a non-committal grunt. "I feel like I should be the one to bring it up, and yet I can't seem to find a way to do so." John shrugged. "I enjoyed listening to you telling me about your conquests, that docker, that sailor... Like 'm a writer, you know. Experiencing things." "Yes," Brian interrupted him, "and that's all very well, but it's when it comes closer to home that I just don't know what to do."

John didn't say anything. He unlocked the door and took a nervous puff from his cigarette, chewing on a piece of gum that had lost all taste for a long time now. "You comin'?" He said, nodding towards his room. 

Brian studied him with concerned eyes. "Are you all right, John?" Lennon merely glared and Brian swallowed dryly. "What for?" The manager tried. "It is rather late, we can talk tomorrow if you like." John took a final drag of his cigarette and threw it on the floor, not caring if it burnt a hole in the carpet of their fancy hotel. "Well," he drawled. "I s'pose that if you still want to stick your dick up my arse -which is why you brought me here, let's face it- it's now or never."

Brian jumped. "John!" He said disapprovingly, startled by Lennon's crudeness. The musician merely sniffled and threw him a contemptuous look before stomping to the bedroom, leaving the door open for Brian. The manager sighed, knowing that he probably shouldn't, but too tired to wait around for John to make up his mind or to turn down what was obviously a bad idea.

John was sitting on the bed, eyes gleaming in the dim light coming from the main room. Brian took his shoes off and padded carefully towards him, sitting down on the bed, not to close. "What're you waiting for, uh?" John challenged, eyes blazing coldly. "Go on, stick it up my arse, then," he spat and Brian sighed angrily. "John," he tempered. "This is not what I want to do with you. This is not even what I like doing, most of the time." John looked at him disbelievingly.

"I'll show you," Brian breathed out, sounding unsure. John frowned, took off his glasses and threw them on the night stand before grabbing Brian by the scruff of his neck and pressing their lips together in a rough kiss.

And then, there was nothing.

Brian's lips were flush against his, warm, dry and gentle, his breath hitching as he startled a little before he pressed back, kissing him lightly. And John felt nothing. No rampant flare of arousal, no burning desire spreading from the pit of his stomach, no eagerness to pull Brian closer and touch him, everywhere, wanting more, always more. Brian's hands cupped his face and the manager made a small noise of pleasure, John's morbid curiousness pushing him to part his lips and shove his tongue inside the man's mouth, making him startle and moan low in his throat.

John leaned away, bringing to the kiss to an end as abrupt as its beginning had been. Brian was flushed, his breathing uneven and his hair ruffled, watching him with dark, longing eyes. He smiled to John, the corners of his mouth trembling and curving back down slowly. For one of the first times in his life, John felt the urge to apologize. "I..." He started but Brian stopped him, standing up. "I see," the manager said, voice unsteady with pain, anger or desire, John couldn't tell. He picked his shoes up and left without a word, closing the door soundlessly behind him, leaving John to sit in the darkness.

John didn't get much sleep that night, questions swirling in his head along with the memory of Brian's lips against his and of the betrayed and hurt look in his keen eyes. Mostly, he was wondering why he had came there in the first place. Was it to prove to himself that he wasn't gay, or to see if he was? In both cases he was pretty fucked up. So what, he wasn't gay then, since he didn't seem to be feeling anything close to arousal while kissing Brian. That was good, right? But still... if he wasn't gay, what the fuck was up with George?

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The hour was growing late and Paul's 21st birthday party was in now full swing. It was held in his aunt's back-garden, none too wild for a rock star really, but everyone seemed to be having a good time helping the bassist celebrate. John had arrived rather early with Cynthia and had immediately begun drinking rather heavily, letting his wife chat with her friends and gulping glasses after glasses of whiskey, looking more and more dangerously cheerful as time went by. No one seemed to worry about his excessive drinking though; it wasn't anything new or even cause for alarm, they all liked getting smashed.

John had had too much tonight though, and he was becoming increasingly obnoxious, his behaviour growing embarrassing. Cynthia had tried to reign her husband in, suggesting he slowed down with his drinking, but it had been of no use. She'd let John go off and hoped he didn't do anything they would both regret.

George had been watching John all night, trying to stay discreet about it. He'd learned how to look at John without bringing any unwanted attention on himself and even the date he'd brought with him, a nice girl with blonde hair who was rather a slip of a thing, hadn't noticed. She didn't live that far from his place and George had been dating her for several months now, although it was nothing serious. He could tell that Paul was fuming. This was supposed to be his special day and all the attention was going to a drunken John.

George watched John open the door of the bathroom and step inside. He excused himself from his date and headed toward the room, stopping short when Bob Wooler bumped into him. Bob was a main fixture of the Mersey Beat scene and DJ at the Cavern. He had also been responsible for introducing the boys to Brian Epstein. George could tell he was rather drunk too, not as drunk as John but close.

"George, my boy!" Bob said loudly, patting George's shoulder hard.

George managed to contort the face he made into a polite smile and nodded to the man. "Bob."

"You boys are going to the top! Good thing I introduced you to the Nemperor." He winked and leant forward. "Shame you got rid of Pete."

George frowned, not liking to be reminded of the ousting of Pete. He'd been the main force behind it but John and Paul had liked Ringo as well, all thinking he was an incredible drummer. He was the best one on the scene really, and he just seemed like a better fit. They'd been right to make the switch but George couldn't help but feeling guilty over it. "You know Paul's..."

Bob playfully tapped George on the chin with his fist and interrupted him. "Oh, buck up! Business is business, right?"

George swatted Bob's hand away. "As I was saying," he said, annoyed, taking a step back. "Paul's looking for you."

"Is he?" Bob looked around the room, eyes falling on Paul chatting with his new red-headed girlfriend, Jane. He bumped into George again as he made his way over to the bassist.

George didn't mind selling Paul out and lying to Bob, knowing his mate could handle him. Paul had always been quite the diplomat, even back when they were the 'Savage Young Beatles,' wearing their leather getups.

John walked out of the bathroom and George grabbed his mate's arm. They hadn't spoken much that night but he thought that if he could get John to stand still for a moment or two, he might just make it through the rest of the evening without making too much of an arse of himself. "You and Cyn having a good time?" George smiled, pulling down the bit of John's collar that had been sticking up. "Much better," he nodded and patted his shoulder.

John blinked drunkenly when George suddenly appeared before him, asking him something and straightening his collar. "Yeah, gear," John slurred, swaying dangerously and leaning against his mate a little before he jumped back. "What're you doing now?" He muttered, confused. George had been the reason he'd drunk so much, John's intoxicated brain suddenly remembered. Well, not just him, but he was part of it. He couldn't remember why, exactly. Ah, yes. Because George was pretty.

John grinned widely to his mate, cackling to himself. "Georgie," he cooed, shaking his head but not explaining himself. "Was just telling this bird how good a composer I was," he said then, jumping from one thing to another. "And she believed me, you know. 'm the best composer ever." He spread his arms and smirked. He caught a glimpse of Cyn looking at him worriedly from across the room and huffed, looking back at George. "I wish she'd leave me alone," he said, suddenly bitter. "'m not a kid anymore." He found himself stroking the lapels of George's jacket for some reason. "Right?"

George nodded. "Yeah, John," he smiled, trying to appear easy going but worried about his mate's drinking tonight. "You're not a kid anymore. You're a husband and a father," he pointed out because it seemed to him that John forgot about it from time to time. George could never forget about it, though. He swallowed hard and looked down at John's hands stroking the lapels of his corduroy jacket. He thought of all the times the older lad had touched him with those calloused hands, knowing that thinking about those things would only make him long for John and feel down that he could no longer have him but unable to stop himself, especially when his mate was so close to him.

John looked away, laughing when his short-sighed eyes picked up the look on Paul's face, flushed with anger as he tried to stop a rather inebriated Bob Wooler from hitting on his fancy new girlfriend. "Looks like Paul's in trouble," he giggled, leaning against George again without even realising it.

George looked across the room at Paul trying to get Bob Wooler to stop pestering him and his girl. He laughed right along with John because it was rare to see Paul lose his cool in public and every time he did it was always humorous to watch Mr. McCharmly try to keep his temper under control and maintain that clean cut image Brian had manufactured for them. "I say we continue let him fend Bob off by himself," he proposed with a grin on his face. George allowed John to lean against him, enjoying the press of his body against his own before he decided it was best to pull back.

"He's not the only one in trouble tonight," George remarked, his dark eyes falling on Cynthia who looked pretty upset by John's antics. She was chatting with George's girl but every so often her troubled eyes would look in their direction. "Make that your last drink of the night," he said, pointing at the glass in John's hand. There was only a sip worth of brown liquid left in it. He placed his arm on John's shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. "Wouldn't want Cyn to give you hell when you get home, " George whispered, knowing the odds of Cynthia giving John an earful were about as good as Pete rejoining the bad. He pulled back to look at John but left his hand on his arm. He didn't need to be that close to say what he had to say but he found himself unable to refrain the urge to touch John. 

John had a little shiver when George's breath washed against his ear, his friend's closeness sending his drunken brain into a hazy swirl of thoughts. Want. He wanted George. He blinked, looking down, not really listening to his mate. It would have been foolish to deny it now but it didn't mean he had to act on it. John sighed and nodded randomly to make George believe he was understanding what he explained, liking the warm press of his friend's arm around his shoulders. He drowned his glass of whiskey and stepped away from him with a shudder. "I need 'nother one..." he muttered, looking around.

George gripped John's arm tightly to keep him there, prolonging their time together. John and he were often together really, but it was almost always for business, the demanding schedule Brian had put together seeing to that. George would have wanted more moments like these, when it felt like it was just the two of them but they never seemed to last. John would look away or excuse himself, and the rest of the world would slowly come back into focus, sharp and plain.

"Am I not intoxicating enough for you?" he asked cheekily, loosening his grip on John's arm but not letting go. "I go down smoother than a shot of whiskey," he stated, cheeks flushing red when he realized the accidental sexual innuendo he'd made, hoping his mate would be too drunk to truly notice.

John snorted drunkenly, swaying a little into George's grip, looking at him with sad dark eyes. "You're intoxicating enough," he stated, probably more seriously than he should have. "T's why 'm drinking." He added a goofy smile to the remark, trying to pass it off as a joke but knowing it was probably too late for that. Dammit. He shouldn't talk to George when he was that drunk. He frowned, missing the sexual innuendo and taking a sip of his empty glass, not realising there was nothing left to drink in it.

George didn't care that John felt miserable. He'd felt that way plenty of times himself and he'd dealt with it as best as he could. It was sort of satisfying to know that although his mate had been the one to end things between the two of them, he still obviously cared for George. What he didn't like was that John's feelings for him, whatever they were, had led his mate to drink heavily to forget about them. That made him feel bad for John, understanding his need to forget all-to-well. "Is it that terrible to think of me? I think of you," he smiled and patted John's arm in an attempt to lighten the mood.

John chuckled and shook his head, his sullen frown disappearing suddenly, waggling his eyebrows at George. "Oh no, not terrible. It's a good thought." He tilted his head to the side, humming, lips curving into a lecherous grin. "A good showerthought," he added as for himself, not realising he was stating that out loud. It wasn't entirely true though, for John didn't allow himself to think about George while showering too much, far too uncomfortable with the obvious arousal that would follow.

George's dark eyes widened in surprise. "Oh," he replied, slipping his hand from John's arm. Just when he thought that he was finally getting over John, his mate would say something that could be considered 'sweet' and he would melt all over again. "Me too," he confessed, shyly. "I think of you when I'm in the..." George trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish. They were there to celebrate Paul's birthday, not to confess that they tossed off thinking of one another.

John sent him a rather scornful glance, snorting and about to retort something nasty, stopping when he noticed Wooler coming into their direction. Good ol' Bob was apparently fed up with Paul already and now confidently strolling towards them, making John groan in annoyance. He didn't especially like him. "Hello boy!" The man said cheerfully, grinning to him. "Top of the charts, aren't you?"

George grinned and nodded. "Yeah, top of the charts," he said, patting John's back and interjecting himself into the conversation, knowing his mate was in no mood for small talk. Bob chuckled, looking disdainful or so John thought. "How long do you think you'll last, hey?" John set his glass on the table next to them. "I don't know," he spat back. "How long do you think you'll last?"

George sighed, watching the exchange with a certain dread, knowing by experience that John was just waiting for Bob to give him a reason to hit him. He couldn't understand why, though. Bob had been pretty annoying tonight, granted, but that was no reason to start a fight with the man and he had a feeling that this was where things could be headed.

"... always a hit on the radio station," Wooler was saying. John shrugged and gave was sounded like a cackle. "Well, ain't that fab?" He hissed with venom, dark eyes bearing into the disc jockey's. The older man pursed his lips, obviously annoyed with Lennon's rude behaviour but too drunk himself to take it easy and drop the matter altogether. "Yes, it is," he replied, smirking slowly. "You know what else is fab? I heard you went on a little vacation to Spain with your queer manager." He paused, giving a mocking chuckle, rather liking the joke. "I bet you had a good time, mn?"

George had tried not to give too much thought to John going on holiday with Brian but Bob just had to open that big mouth of his and stir up the feelings of jealousy inside of him, didn't he? He knew what Bob was implying and he should've felt relieved that his name hadn't been mentioned but he didn't, placing his hand over his churning stomach.

John's face was so white it seemed ashen. A shudder shook him, eyes darkening dangerously and lips parting, anger burning into the pit of his stomach, sudden and overwhelming. "What?" He drawled. How did this man dare suggesting... although it as sort of true... but in front of George... John's thoughts were swirling madly. "What did you just fucking said?" He growled threateningly.

The tense moment seemed to stretch out for an inordinate amount of time. George nervously licked his lips, eyes darting around the room. No one seemed to be paying them any mind. "He's just joking, John," he said, reaching out and placing his hand onto his mate's arm arm. "Always the kidder, Bob!" He laughed tensely and glared at Bob. "Oh, yes," the disc jokey nodded. "Just joking." He winked. "I've got to ask, tough..." He leaned in, smirking. "Who got to be the bride?" He wiggled his eyebrows and laughed heartily in John's face.

John's fist crashed into Wooler's nose before he could even think about it. He was nothing but hatred at this point, anger and shame swirling into his drunk brain. Time slowed down as the man stumbled backwards, people turning around to stare, screaming when John charged him again, throwing another nasty punch that made his knuckles ache and Wooler crash on the floor.

George wasn't really surprised when John hit the annoying disc jockey in the nose but he was stunned by the viciousness with which his mate attacked Wooler. It turned his stomach to see him wailing on the drunken man because he'd alluded to John being gay. He felt as if he should have done something, pulled John back and off Wooler but he didn't want to get involved. What if anyone suspected he had anything to do with this queer business? What if John yelled at him too? He wasn't the only one to be sickened by the brutality John displayed though, the party-goers also looked mortified by the sight of the Beatle savagely beating up on him. Cynthia seemed completely aghast and was far too frightened to stop her drunk and out of control husband.

"What did you freaking say, you fucking cunt?" John yelled, his vision grey around the edges, dealing him with a vicious kick in the ribs. He grabbed the whimpering man and smashed him against the floor violently. "Callin' me a freaking faggot? You're the freakin' faggot," he shouted, ignoring the people that told him to get off Wooler. 

A few blokes tried to hold John back from further assaulting Wooler, the man lying on the floor groaning in pain and holding his ribs. They finally managed to restrain John and a few other helpful guests got Bob up. Brian went into damage control mode and pulled Cynthia aside, telling her to get John out of here. He then quickly ushered Bob out the front door.