John sat down, taking his place in the wide circle of Krishna devotees having lunch on the plush carpet of the "Temple", as everyone had taken to calling this building at the northern end of Tittenhurst Park since the Swami had arrived. They were meant to meet his 'Grace', Swami Bhaktivedanta, for the first time that afternoon, to receive a lecture about his movement, simply entitled Hare Krishna.

Yoko was sitting close to him, talking animatedly with a bald man in a bright, orange tunic. "Hare Krishna." A devotee stood next to John, handing him his bowl of brown rice and stewed vegetables. "Hare Krishna," John replied distractedly, grabbing his fork and eating slowly, feeling somewhat out of place although he had been the one to organise this all, to invite the Swami and his disciples to Tittenhurst.

It had seemed like a good idea, at the time. John was interested in the Hare Krishna movement. He and Yoko had discussed it, and agreed that his previous encounter with the Maharishi had been regrettable but not to be taken as representative of the whole philosophy. John was still looking for an "answer" after all, something to give significance to his life.

Yoko, with conceptual art and a budding political commitment, had begun to introduce a little meaning into his daily routine, and he no longer felt like a fat king worshipped by thousands of mindless groupies. That was good, but he still missed something. The Krishna philosophy, albeit ruined the first time by the Maharishi's behaviour, had always appealed to him, and he'd thought that it couldn't hurt to give it another go.

His eyes wandered upon the crowd, suddenly pausing on the couple in front of him, only a few steps away. Pattie, with her fair hair wrapped up in a cute bonnet, and George, sitting cross-legged and smiling to her through his beard, hair growing long. George had been the other reason why John had decided to have to Krishnas at Tittenhurst, the reason he'd not given to Yoko, although he suspected she'd had an inkling when he'd brought up inviting him. He would never have admitted to it, though. This was meant to be a spiritual quest, not an opportunity to mend bridges with an old lover. It was what it had turned out to be, though.

John knew this interest for the Krishna movement was something he and George had always had in common, something that had easily brought them together in the past. He remembered 1965, tentatively learning how to meditate, Greece and their endless days of chanting together, and India, where they'd held hands and meditated in the Ashram at night, when everybody else was sleeping.

Thus, inviting George over for a week of Krishna readings had been convenient, the perfect excuse so to speak, but it had also been John's way to reach out for George and to show he was sorry. John could never apologise straightforwardly. He had to employ ruses, demonstrate an obtuse generosity, to convey how guilty he was. He'd felt terrible after his argument with George. The man had came back to the studio soon enough, preventing them from hiring Clapton instead, but John had known just how deep he'd hurt him.

Unlike John, George was never gratuitously vicious, and for him to have gotten so mean and cutting, for him to have thumped John, he knew his friend had had to be devastated. Things had been awkward at first, in the studio, gradually evolving into a cold but not directly hostile game of ignoring each other. John's invitation to Tittenhurst had tipped this precarious balance again, and they were slowly but surely slipping back to something akin to friendship, now.

John stretched his legs, feeling somewhat restless after all this sitting around. He leaned towards Yoko to attract her attention. "How 'bout a stroll, before it begins?" He pursed his lips as she declined, getting up nonetheless. "I'll go on me own, then." He wiped an imaginary tear, chuckling as she smiled up to him. He padded towards the door, pausing as his eyes caught George's from across the room, giving him a little grin. He hesitated for a second and then nodded towards the garden, raising his eyebrows in silent invitation.

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After finishing off his lunch of brown rice, George drank the last of the plum juice from his cup. It was one of the many delicious drinks made by the Krishna disciples using a variety of ripe fruits and sweet spices, best served cold. He turned away from the group he was sitting with, kneeling in front of a small toy piano on the floor. The name of Yoko's daughter, "Kyoko", had been carved in a child's handwriting into the black paint on the side.

George began to plunk out something resembling a melody, a tune he'd had in mind for the past few days. He'd come up with it toward the end of the 'White Album' sessions but hadn't developed the song any further until recently. "What's that you're playing, love?" Pattie smiled, reaching out to slip a strand of loose hair behind his ear.

"Nothing really." George looked up, missing the look of disappointment on his wife's face as the question failed to engage him in conversation. He watched John cross the room, their eyes meeting and communicating without words, like in the good old days. He smiled softly and nodded, rising to his feet and walking away from Pattie without another word. She sighed, looking down, and picked at her plate of half eaten food.

John waited for George outside, leaning against the doorframe and trying to look as detached as he could. He knew it probably wouldn't fool George, but he'd be damned if he let his friend see just how giddy he felt at the mere perspective of strolling with him. He slid a cigarette between his thin lips, keeping his eyes on the expense of dewy grass stretching before him when his mate joined him on the porch.

"Fancy a stroll?" he asked casually, holding out his pack of ciggies for George, who nodded, taking the packing of Gitanes. "Haven't you got Marlboros?" He grinned, thin fingers sliding one out of the pack. "A big cigarette for a big man," he mumbled around the one in his mouth, winking, and John snorted. "Big man?" He made a face, looking unconvinced and giving George a teasing once over. "Not from what I remember..." He smirked, slipping his pack into his pocket.

George chuckled around the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, his mate's teasing words reminding him of another time, before things had abruptly ended between the two of them, becoming awkward and tense. "Everybody's a critic," he replied good-naturedly, eyes playfully glinting, showing that he could take a joke without having to say more.

John stepped onto the damp lawn, feeling the water from the grass seep through his socks and climb up his light trousers, cold and wet. He had a shiver. "Bit muddy, 'm afraid." He lifted one soggy foot and watched it drip distastefully, before shrugging. "Had worse." He looked at George, sitting down on the porch to remove his shoes and socks, rolling up his pants.

"Worse than this?" George raised an eyebrow at John. "How 'bout what happened in Australia?" he scratched his beard, brow furrowing in thought for a second. "At least I think it was Australia. Us wearing those funky capes we had made in Hong Kong and holding these umbrellas to shield us from the fuckin' downpour of rain!" John chuckled, taking a few tentative steps, the grass more muddy than cold against his naked skin as he got used to it. "Yeah, I remember that. Doin' our lil' parading around, good Beatle PR." He shook his head, easily reminded of how crazy these tours of them had been.

George took several puffs off his cigarette, continuing. "And all of us were blue because of the dye from the capes." John nodded, glancing down, his feet looking very white on the green grass, like something out of the dark. "You still coming?" George sat down, slipping off his shoes and stuffing his socks into them. "Brian spent half of the evening on the phone with the shop he'd bought 'em at," John recalled, snorting. "He was beside himself. Felt quite guilty, too. I told 'im even me cock was blue, that seemed to cheer him a little..."

George laughed and then briefly looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. "You and I certainly had fun washing it off." John gave him an amused look, the picture of George's naked back -wet and stained blue, soft and hot under his fingers as he scrubbed it- shooting before his eyes. "That was a long time ago," he stated quietly, pensively nibbling on the end of his cigarette. The memory had been buried deep within John's mind, never quite springing to the surface until George had called it back up. "Seems so, at least."

George sighed, nodding his head in agreement. "It was only three years ago, but sometimes it feels like a hundred," he remarked tiredly, feeling weary just from the thought of everything they had seen and done. George rolled the legs of his jeans to his knees, standing up and taking a long drag from his cigarette. "You remember Paul having to catch the mentally handicapped child that lady threw at him?" John made a face, turning around to give George a look. "Yeah, I do. Nearly had a heart attack, he did." He watched the ashes at the end of his cigarette fall into the grass, darkening as they became water-lodged, before meshing with the mud.

"These people were cracked. Throwing us that kid as if we could miraculously help him..." He looked back up to George, watching him through his round-rimmed glasses. "Feeling nostalgic, are you?" he mocked, raising an eyebrow. George shrugged. "Something like that. I suppose I've gotten to that age where I'm thinking of the past more often."

He stepped out onto the grass, a chill running through him as he adjusted to the cold muddy water. "I don't suppose you'd carry me on yer back, eh?" He patted John's shoulder companionably. "You don't suppose well, son," John drawled in reply, sauntering lazily towards the lake. "It's me own fault it's so bloody damp. Had a lake dug in the middle of it. They told me it'd make everything muddy when it rains."

George laughed. "You just had to have it though, right?" He walked alongside John, staring out at the lake off in the distance. "I really wanted one. T's good, can take the row boat out when the weather is nice, and go 'round it." George tilted his head to the side, silently agreeing. He took another drag from his cigarette. "Thanks for having us here, John. You're doing a good thing having them here at your home and all."

"Yeah, I guess." John didn't sound too convinced but he gave George an honest smile, dreading that his lack of conviction for the Krishna movement would bring another argument between the two of them. "Looking forward to this afternoon's lecture, as a matter of fact. Yoko an' I still have lots of questions. She thinks mantra could be seen as a form of art, you know." He scratched his chin. "I like that."

George smiled thinly, refusing to allow what he believed to be John's scepticism to ruin this for him. He took a final puff from his cigarette and tossed it into the wet grass. "You'd be surprised what you can take from this if you listen with an open mind." He walked ahead of John, reaching the edge of the lake before his mate, turning around to watch him follow lazily.

"I am," John retorted, raising his eyebrows and nodding towards the water, grinning. "Don't make me push you in, you sanctimonious prick..." he drawled, standing by George and looking towards the small island in the middle of the lake. George bumped their shoulders together painlessly. "It's juss..." John paused, looking for the right words. "I want the real thing, you know? A true master." He slid another cigarette from his pack without getting it out of his pocket.

"How're you supposed to tell a good one from a fraud? Maharishi seemed spiritual enough, at first." He lit his fag, taking a deep breath, absently indulging in another dose of poison pleasure. "'T's a question of authority. Who do you trust, who don't you trust? What's real, what's not? Can't really tell, can you?" He threw George a glance, looking pensive but hopeful his mate would have an answer for him.

George crouched down and grabbed a small stone. "We don't know if the rumours were true." He stood up, still feeling a bit guilty for how they'd left things with the guru. He tossed the stone across the water, trying to skip it along the surface of the lake. It quickly sunk, causing George to chuckle and crouch down for another rock. John didn't comment on his failure both to reassure him and to make the stone ricochet, sighing. "You need a flat one."

George looked up, feeling for his mate. It was obvious that John was searching for something, that he'd been searching for quite some time and had yet to find anything. "I can't answer that for you. It's your path to travel, not mine." He grabbed two stones and stood up, handing one to John. "You can't find answers if you're not open to them." He skipped another rock on the surface, this one going further across the water.

"I am open," John insisted, looking at the stone George had gave him, his skin still tingling a little from the gentle brush of his mate's fingers. "Wide." He spread his arms, one of them bumping against George's chest. George laughed, sliding his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. "Couldn't be more open." John muttered, letting his arms drop by his sides and slipping the stone into his pocket, unwilling to throw it into the lake where it would be lost forever, keeping it as a reminder of this conversation.

"That's good." George companionably patted his mate's back. "Maybe, you'll find the answers you're seeking." He looked over his shoulder at Tittenhurst, blurred in the foggy distance. "We should get back. I don't want to miss what he has to say."

"Yeah." John looked at the lake, the small ripples caused by George's stone slowly coming to lap at their feet before disappearing, the water smooth and dark again. "All right." He nodded to himself and sauntered back to the house, George by his side.

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George stood at the counter of the studio kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea. The recording session for 'Something', his new tune, was going relatively well. He wanted it to have an old blues feel, the kind of song Ray Charles would have belted out, wearing his trademark sunglasses and playing his piano soulfully. He sat down at the table, not bothering to add anything to his tea before leaning back into the chair, blowing on the warm liquid and having a small sip.

He could hear loud laughter coming from the studio. Whenever Billy Preston was there, everyone seemed to be on their best behaviour, getting along and working together well. He wasn't sure of whether that was because Billy was good-natured enough to lift everyone's spirits, or because they did not wish to broadcast the disharmony in the band too widely just yet.

Anyway, it helped diminishing the tension that could dominate a studio session. He chuckled to himself, scratching at his bearded chin, recalling with fond surprise how he'd warily asked Paul if he could keep his bass playing simple, his mate complying without argument.

Everyone seemed to like his song, praising him for how good it was and making George somewhat irritated in the process. They'd all sounded so surprised when he'd played it for the first time, as if they hadn't thought he had it in him to come up with this kind of song on his own, and put it together with little to no input.

He thought of George Martin as being the worst offender, managing to look quite stunned when George had laid down the first demo a few months earlier. George knew he was no Lennon and McCartney, but he wasn't trying to be either. He frowned, placing his cup of tea onto the table top and thoughtfully chewing on his thumbnail. His thick brow knitted together in a clear expression of annoyance and resentment, looking up as John sauntered in cheerfully.

"... my love grow? I don't know-oh-oh, I... don't know..." John hummed under his breath, a little ruffled but mostly happy with himself. He paused as he spotted George, sitting there looking sour. He padded towards him, taking a sip from his tea and pursing his lips at how bland it was. Amusement replaced the bothered look on George's face.

"It's not that bad," he stated, answering John's silent disapproval. He picked up the cup, having himself a small sip, really tasting the tea this time and briefly making a face he hoped John didn't catch. It was that bad, especially to George's palate, now used to spices that enriched the flavour of whatever you were drinking or eating. "I've tasted far more interesting things." He raised his eyebrows, playfully grinning at his mate over the rim of the cup before he placed it onto the tabletop.

John threw him a look, unfathomable. "Yeah, I'd bet. All that Indian cuisine," he drawled, knowing that this was a cop out but doubting George would call him out on it. He had another sip from his mate's tea, taking the cup with him this time. "Don't know how you can drink that, it's like piss," he muttered, sitting in front of George and adding sugar and milk to it.

"Stealing my tea, are you?" George sat forward, resting his arms on the table, dark eyes attentively focused on his friend. "Some things never change." John frowned a little, wondering why George looked so put-upon when everyone was raving their arses off about how good his tune was and doing their best to play it as he wanted. He made a rude noise and gave him his tea back cautiously, raising his eyebrows in a silent attempt to check that he was okay. "Been recording some more piano for your tune," he announced, knowing that his mate had probably heard it. "With Billy."

George stared at the cup thoughtfully, debating how to put what he wanted to say without shaking the fragile foundation upon which they were slowly re-building their friendship. It'd been easy to tell Paul that his elaborate bass playing wasn't needed on the track, but things were different with John. George knew things would always be different with John. "What you've been working on is good." He looked up, meeting John's eyes. "I think you could make something of it for your own. I don't think it's meant for mine."

John's eyes widened a little behind his round-rimmed glasses. He hadn't been expecting that. "All right, then," he said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. George's rejection stung a little, but it was less irritating than he thought he would be. "Keeping this one pretty close to the chest, aren't you?" He stole George's tea cup right back because hey, he'd earned that, and George wasn't going to drink it anyway. "I can play something else, if you'd like," he proposed, easy-going enough. "Juss tell me how you'd like it to be. 'm adaptable." There was the slightest naughty glint in his eyes before he looked back down, grinning into the cup.

George smiled, briefly. "I remember that quite well." John threw him a look, amused and slightly annoyed by the innuendo. "Oi. Enough of that lip already, son," he stated playfully, his tone holding a shade of warning. He rather enjoyed George's humour (well all right, he loved it), but he was put slightly on edge by the constant reminder of their previous affair. Sex with George was not something John allowed himself to think about too often, afraid he would develop too big a craving for it. George was his mate again and John loved him dearly. Everything was well and good.

George leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you think of the tune?" He knew that John could be honest to a fault, but that was precisely what he needed right then. Honesty, even brutal in nature. He continued, not allowing John to answer the question he'd asked. "Did ya see the look on old Martin's face?" he snorted, annoyed. "Is it so hard to believe that I could come up with a good tune all on me own?"

"No, it's not," John replied carefully. They'd been surprised by how good 'Something' had turned out to be, but John knew it was rather unfair to George. It seemed that they'd all under-estimated his song-writing abilities, himself included. He wanted to tell George otherwise, to say that the song was so good, George Martin would have been surprised even if John or Paul themselves had come up with it, but that would have been a lie, and John was bad at lying to make people feel better. Even George.

"At least, you get to go I told ya so on everyone's arses?" he proposed, raising an eyebrow in George's direction. George shrugged, disappointed that he hadn't joined in on his resentment for their well-meaning producer. Why would he, though? George Martin had always given John and Paul's compositions plenty of attention, but everything George seemed to submit received little to no support. "He's never been supportive of me, always busy with the two of you. The real talents of the group," he remarked, agitated.

"Well, he's being supportive, now," John replied, sounding bristle, more because he knew George had a point than because he was annoyed by his whining as he tried to let on. "Got to prove yerself to him, I suppose. Won't think much of you until you give 'im something truly good." George snorted, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. John paused, playing with his slowly cooling cup of tea. "He didn't think much of Paul an' I at the beginning either, if you remember."

George frowned. "He thought enough of the two of you to help with your songs. You never felt like he was humouring you in there, did you?" He nodded toward towards the open doorway. "Well, I did!" He knew he sounded bitter and tried to rein it in, but it was useless now that he'd gotten started. "You know what he said about 'Savoy Truffle' when it was being mixed? It was too toppy. I told him I liked it that way and he buggered off," he venomously spat out.

"Oh c'mon, George," John groaned, leaning back into his chair with a huff. He scratched the new scar on his chin, the one he'd gotten from that car accident, not sure of what he should do. "What d'you want me to say, eh?"

"Don't want you to say nothin'," George petulantly spat out. John rolled his eyes. "So, yeah, he didn't think you were too much of a song-writer so far. He was wrong." He raised his eyebrows. "Obviously. And yeah, Paul an' I write a shitload of tunes, most of which are good, so if you want to get little attention, you'd better be good as well. That's how it always was, wasn't it?"

George couldn't argue with that. The songwriting partnership had never included him, he'd been altogether excluded from it pretty early on. John had a half smirk, the glint in his eyes playfully mocking. "What d'you want me to do about it, uh? Should I go and break dear Henry's nose?" He nudged George in the ribs, laying in the Scouse accent thickly. "Did ya wrong, son? You want me to kick his teeth in? That posh bastard..."

"I can handle myself," George replied tiredly, briefly closing his eyes, too wrapped up in his pessimism to be amused by the whacker persona John put on. "I don't need you fighting my battles for me. I never did." John stared at the blankness on George's face and did not like it. "I know." He sounded unusually quiet and reached for George's hand, almost getting there before he changed his mind, his fingers hitting the middle of the table with a silent thump.

George softened a bit at the change in John's demeanour. It was easy to forget that he had the ability to hurt his mate, and it never made him feel good to be reminded of it. "Whatever shall I do with myself, if you don't need me to break noses for you anymore..." John drawled, smiling a little still.

"I'm sure you'll get by." George smiled back softly, wanting to extend an olive branch. "You never had a hard time finding trouble." His words were teasing but genuinely warm, making John snort at how much of a freaking understatement that was. "Besides, I can't recall the last time I ran into a pack of drunken Krauts looking for a fight." He smiled, guarded demeanour slowly fading away. John merely raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I can," he stated slowly, remembering all-too-well George showing up at the flat bruised and battered, on the verge of crying and defiant at the same time, making John want to murder the entire neighbourhood for hurting him. "Made me angry." He paused. "That was kind of soft, retrospectively."

"Made you angry," George chuckled. "Made my face hurt." John shuffled his feet under the table, pushing the now cold cup of tea away from him. "That don't sound so much like a win-win situation, does it?" George shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "And now, I've got to watch my back for over-enthusiastic apple scruffs!" He gasped in mock horror, dark brown eyes widening in fear at the thought. "The Krauts don't look so bad in retrospect. Lots of things don't." He gave his mate a thoughtful look, bordering on wistful, before George buried the feeling deeply inside himself.

John snarled but he did reach to pat George's hand, this time. "If someone'd told you you'd miss the drunken, violent Krauts back then..." he drawled, leaning away to light himself a cigarette. "They ain't so bad anymore, the scruffs. Used to be worse. Now they're content with just staring and insulting Yoko." He raised an eyebrow, as if he couldn't see the really see the humour in that but still making a joke for the hell of it.

"Not so bad?" George quirked an eyebrow at his mate. "Whenever you arrive at the studio it's like a scene out of the bible, Moses parting the Red Sea. The rest of us get mobbed, gifts shoved at us. How'd you pull that off?" he asked, amused. John smirked. "I'll let you know that they find me pretty impressive, apparently..." He threw George a playful look and drummed his fingers on the table. "Come 'ead, then." He got up, nodding towards the studio. "That masterpiece of yers isn't going to record itself, is it?"

George laughed, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. "I'm sure Paul could finish it all on his own." He replied good-naturedly, patting a cackling John on the back as they rejoined the others in the studio.