"Christ, John!" George moaned, breathing loudly and tilting his head back against the bedroom wall, his dark hair matted to his forehead and damp at the ends. John hummed softly, pressing his lips to the inside of George's thigh. "You liked doing that, uh?" George's mouth curved upwards into a self-assured smile and he ran a hand through the back of John's sweaty hair. "Yes," John replied quietly, resting his cheek against George's leg and staying where he was, kneeling between his mate's thin legs. 

George leaned heavily against the wall, trying to stay standing although he felt shaky and weak, glassed eyes vaguely looking over at his mate's trousers near the locked door of the room. John had taken the time to jam a chair underneath the knob for good measure when they'd tumbled into the room in a mess of limbs and frantic kisses, not wanting anyone to catch them in the act, especially not the press or, even worse, Cyn or Pattie. John had discarded his pants straight away but kept his shirt on in his haste to get George on his back or in this case on his front, pressed against the wall of the room he was sharing with Cyn. 

George hadn't protested, knowing his mate liked to do it that way, pinning him against a wall and pounding into him from behind, biting the crook of his shoulder and pinching George's nipples teasingly until his knees buckled, his moves desperate and seeking release. He hadn't stroked George though and when he'd finished he had been quick to ask his mate what he wanted. George had breathed out "blowjob", unwilling to bring up the subject of doing it 'the other way round'. John got to shag him, but swapping had never been mentioned, much to his disappointment. 

He licked his plump bottom lip, heart still beating with such frenzy that George was surprised it hadn't found a way out of his lean chest. He looked down, meeting John's eyes, liking the sense of power seeing his mate kneel there gave him. John grinned, nuzzling George's thigh and indulging him a while longer, staying put. It was quite the turn on for George when he dropped to his knees to service him; John knew it and had no qualms about doing that for his mate. John liked pleasuring George on a general basis (the man made the most delicious noises he'd ever heard) and dropping to his knees held a strange, twisted appeal to him, forcing him to submit, to bend in front of someone, to shut up and let go. John didn't like not having the upper hand -whatever the situation- and yet, submitting to George was oddly arousing to him. 

George slid his thumb over John's lips, wiping the last bit of come away and licking his finger to taste himself, not minding it. John chuckled and sat back on his heels, stroking up George's legs, feeling them twitch under his fingers. "You're going to get me going again," he mock-complained, slowly standing up, knees cracking. "C'me here." He pulled George towards the bed, lying on his back with a pleased sigh, wearing nothing but his shirt and socks, looking totally dishevelled. 

Brian had arranged for them all to stay in a rented home, somewhere secluded on the island, wanting to get them some semblance of privacy while they were filming in the Bahamas. The manager knew all-too-well that they needed a break from all of the press and fans that never seemed to let up, and this was the best he could do. George could hear the muffled voices of his mates and their birds as they lounged around the pool, the sound of their laughter and lively conversation floating in with the breeze from the open window, far-away and soft. The curtains had been drawn and the room he and John were in was on the side of the house, first floor, facing away from the pool, but he still had this fear that somebody could walk by when a gust of wind blew through and parted the curtains, exposing them. 

John rolled on his side, considering George as he lay next to him, panting. His mate's breathing was still uneven and his pulse fluttered under John's fingertips as he traced the lean line of his neck, making him grin. "I did quite the little number on you George, didn't I?" he whispered playfully, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "Do you like seeing me on my knees so much?" He raised an eyebrow, tracing George's still bruised lower lip. 

George laughed, propping himself up on his elbows, looking at his mate's flushed and sweaty face. He pecked John's finger affectionately as it traced his bottom lip. "I have to admit that there is something sexually thrilling about getting John Lennon on his knees, yes," he stated, looking too serious before he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, falling back into bed. "You sound like someone who gave that quite a lot of thought, Georgie," John drawled, cupping George's chin and pressing their lips together briefly, feeling him shiver when a cool breeze flitted through the bedroom. 

George was completely naked, sweat dripping down his slender frame, making him entertain the idea of dressing up and joining the others down by the pool. He didn't want to arise Cyn's suspicions that John had been up to something when she came back to a room with wet sheets. He was far too tired to move though, lying close to John, the other lad watching the goosebumps chasing on his shoulder, leaning in to give his mate's salty skin a curious lap. "I could go for a joint," he finally decided, stretching lazily and sitting up, looking back at George from above his shoulder, smiling. "You want to smoke with me? Get high for dinner?" 

"Should get dressed..." George replied, sitting up as well and resting his back against the headboard, "...after we have that joint." He grinned and turned onto his side, grabbing the lighter on the bedside table, pausing when he noticed the pamphlets that the Hare Krishnas had given them a while earlier. It had been in-between a take during the filming of their scene on bicycles that bald men in robes, wearing flower wreaths around their necks, had approached the lads. George had been the only one seemingly interested in what they had to say and he'd read the information handed to him several times throughout the day. 

The fame, success and perks of being a Beatle were rewarding but there were times when George felt empty. He was searching for something and although he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, he knew he desired peace of mind, as a start. He tossed the lighter to John, reaching down, and grabbed the reading materials. "Did you even read them?" he asked curiously, holding the pamphlets up briefly before he placed them back onto the bedside table. 

John put the lighter in his lap, sitting up next to George once he'd gotten the small stash of pot he'd brought with him against Brian's advice, starting to roll with a quickness that betrayed his expertise in the matter. "Gave 'em a go, yeah. I wasn't too convinced. The blokes who gave them to us looked right off their rocker, if you ask me." George nodded in agreement and chuckled, they had looked barmy but that hadn't deterred him from being interested in their message. John licked the paper, sealing the joint lazily, looking up at George. "That meditation stuff for instance, 'm not sure I could dig that, you know. I'm a nervous kinda guy all right, but sitting there for hours just thinking and singing?" He made a face, lighting the joint. "'sides, there is no way you're cutting off all your hair." 

George raised his eyebrow at John with a small grin. "Maybe I would cut off all my hair. Can you imagine? Brian would have a heart attack." John snickered and took a deep toke before passing the joint the George. "Yeah, he would. But what am I going to hold onto while we have sex if you do, uhm?" he teased. George took a drag from the joint, inhaling the rich, heavy smoke and holding it down for several long moments before he breathed out slowly. 

"You're a creative bloke. I'm sure you can find something else." He grinned, taking a quick puff before he handed the joint back to his mate. John tucked it between his thin lips and combed his fingers through George's hair gently, humming. "Could go for your ears, I suppose." He curled a strand of George's hair behind his ear contemplatively, smiling to him when he cooed in reply before his mate climbed out of bed, grabbing his jeans and shirt, slipping them on. 

He picked up John's jeans and tossed them to him. "You know, that meditation stuff doesn't sound so bad. I read it a couple of times. You can teach yourself how to clear your mind by chanting and singing. You can even get high without getting high but I suppose you've got to really be something to reach that level." He rejoined John in bed. "You want to give it a try?" he asked hesitantly, watching his mate struggle with his fly, worried that he would give him a hard time about being so taken by it. 

John shrugged, taking another good puff from the joint, sitting back next to George and rocking a little on the bed, pot making him mellow already. He hummed non-committally, meeting his friend's eyes and pausing at the hopeful expression they held, making him tilt his head to the side, lips curling up fondly. "Sure, why not." It couldn't be that terrible, could it? And it would please George, and have him smile that special I'm pleased way of his that John liked so much. He chuckled at his own inner ramblings. "Not sure you're supposed to be high when you do it, though." He handed the joint to George, scratching his cheek. "What are we supposed to do, then?" 

"We should do it on the floor," George said and they both laughed at the unintentional sexual innuendo, snickering like schoolboys. George climbed out of bed, slowly moving over to the curtain-covered window, sitting down underneath. A gust of wind ruffled his hair and the gossamer curtain surrounded him, billowing gently, wave-like. He took several quick hits off the joint, feeling the growing heat on his fingers, and stubbed it out on the windowsill before flicking it off the ledge. "Come 'ead, John." He grinned, looking at his mate through the gauzy curtain. 

John sighed a little but he did, sauntering towards George and sitting in front of him, gently prying the curtain from his head, not unlike a bride's veil. The thought made him giggle as he wriggled closer, his knees bumping against George's. The sun was warm upon his leg, hot rays falling on them through the window, playing with George's dark hair. John smiled. "Awright, then. What's next?" 

"Close yer eyes." George's voice was soft and low as he closed his own eyes. John nodded quietly and complied. "Focus on your breathing, listen to it, follow it and the chattering of your mind will slowly fade away," he explained, briefly cracking an eye open to make sure his mate was following his instructions. John was doing his best actually, feeling quite relaxed and not minding so much. He breathed in deep, shoulders slumping a little, heartbeat calm and even. 

George was far too high to concentrate though and he opened his eyes pretty soon, watching the sun stream in from the window and highlight the auburn colour of John's hair. "You're making it hard for me to focus." He grinned flirtatiously and John chuckled. "Eh, it was your idea. It's not so bad." He put both his hands on George's knees. "C'mon, meditate. Breathe and all that, will ya?" John smirked but he kept his eyes shut, feeling good sitting there in the sun, the air soft and warm on his skin. 

George slipped his hands onto John's and caressed the skin with his thumbs, making him smile. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes before exhaling slowly, focusing on his breathing, blocking out the noises coming from the pool. He felt a warmth wash over him and his body relaxed. George wasn't sure of whether it was the pot, the meditation or his mate stroking his knees, but it felt good. John kept his eyes closed a long time before he finally opened them, leaning in to kiss George. 

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"If I Needed Someone, take..." George paused. He'd been at this all day, working on the same song, and he wasn't sure of the number of takes he'd done anymore. "Thirteen, I think." He strummed a basic D chord, moving his fingers on the strings, playing with the melodies. "If I needed someone to love, you're the one that I'd be thinking of... if I needed someone." He looked down at the yellow legal pad in front of him. "If I had some more time to spend, then I guess I'd be with you my friend... if I needed someone. Had you come some other day, then it might not have been like this, but you see now I'm too much in love..." George trailed off. 

His thoughts kept returning to John which made it difficult for him to focus, this song having grown into yet another account on the state of his relationship with his mate. He pressed stop on the tape recorder and placed his 12-string Rickenbacker onto its stand. He grabbed his pack of ciggies and tucked one between his lips, stepping out of the music room. 

He went outside to the pool, sitting down on the diving board with his legs dangling over the edge, and puffed on his cigarette. It was chilly out but he was too deep in thought to notice. He was feeling confused, unable to get the argument that he'd had with John out of his mind, and especially the last words his friend had uttered before he'd stormed out of Kinfauns. 

Why do you even want her when you can have me? 

It was a question that weighed heavily on George's troubled mind. It should have been easy for him to answer : he wasn't queer, he was in love with Pattie. He was beginning to realize that things were not that simple, though. He couldn't leave John but he couldn't truly have him either, no matter how much he wanted him. He could be with him, but it wasn't the same as being with a bird, he couldn't propose to him, marry him and start a family. He could do all these things with Pattie though and that was why he'd proposed to her. 

He'd shared the news of his engagement with John first, thinking it would be best if his friend heard it from him instead of someone else. He'd told John during one of their clandestine meetings at Kinfauns and had initially thought that he'd taken the news rather well. They'd cracked jokes about how devastated the fans would be when they heard the news that another Beatle was off the market. George had been very relieved by John's non-reaction. 

But then John had dropped by Kinfauns again and George had wanted him to listen to a few songs he'd been working on for their new album. He'd seemed to be in an irritable mood from the moment he'd stepped through the front door but George had overlooked it, far too excited with what he'd come up with to let John's sour mood get him down. He thought he'd grown as a songwriter and wanted his mate's opinion. John hadn't seemed too impressed though and had even been extremely dismissive of the home-made demos George had played for him. 

He had been hurt by John's harsh criticism, his mate picking the songs apart line by line, only making compliments in his best sarcastic voice. George was upset, he'd worked rather hard on this new material and thought he'd come up with some good tunes. John had told George he'd be lucky to get at least one song on the album though, and a heated discussion had ensued. It'd soon escalated into an argument about just how many songs George should be allowed on the album, rather pointlessly since this was the type of thing that was decided in the studio, Paul and George Martin having a say in it as well. 

George couldn't help but feel that this row hadn't been about him being allowed more spots on their albums, based on John's aggressive behaviour and hurtful words. He'd gotten personal, making snide comments about Pattie being a blonde airhead, and then had said the words that had been running in George's mind on a continuous loop. 

Why do you even want her when you can have me? 

I love her. 

John had quickly stormed out of George's home after the declaration of his feelings for Pattie. They'd seen one another since, but John had acted as if nothing had happened and George didn't know whether he ought to feel grateful or annoyed by all this. 

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John parked his car at a reasonable distance from Kinfauns, feeling no desire to be spotted by the hysterical girls who seemed to be camping there at all times. Kinfauns was only a ten-minutes drive from Kenwood and this hadn't nearly been long enough for him to decide what he really wanted to do. He stared at the birds chatting excitedly on the pavement. The news of George's imminent wedding to the pretty model called Pattie Boyd had been all over the press these days, triggering a wave of mixed euphoria and despair amongst the fans. Paul had even told him that it was the best time to hook up with one of these birds. They were throwing themselves at him apparently, one more hope of marrying a Beatle having vanished with George's engagement. 

But John was in no mood for that. John was in no mood for anything. He'd had an argument with George a few days ago, about... he wasn't even sure of what it'd been about, really. What he knew though, was that he hadn't been able to sleep properly since. 

"I love her," George had said, and the words had cut through John's chest like razor blades, making his stomach drop and his heart turn to stone. He'd fled then, fled without asking for more, without asking for any sort of explanation. "I love her," George had said. 'I don't love you', was what he'd meant. John's knuckles were white on the driving wheel and he had to pry his fingers from the polished leather one by one, folding them in his lap. 

He could see it all, now. From the moment George had invited him home, looked at him with his soulful dark eyes and told him about Pattie, to the kiss John had pressed to his mouth to shut him up; from the moment George had brought up writing a song for their next album hopefully, to John yelling at him and telling him that he'd only been in the band in the first place because John wanted to shag him; from the moment George had said "I love her" to the impact of the words in his chest, robbing him from his breath, robbing him from his heart. 

He could see that now and he could see much more, George's eyes on top of that double decker bus; the blood trickling down his chin after he fell down the stairs; the way his shoulders had slumped when John hadn't replied to his words of love; Brian's face when he'd pushed him away and said, "I'm sorry." 

"Bloody hell," he cursed to himself, bumping his forehead against the driving wheel. He stayed like this for a while -eyelids burning- before he drew a sharp breath in and got out of the car. He'd been so stupid. He'd had George, all his, gathered in his arms, and he'd taken him for granted. And now George was gone and John was only beginning to realise just how much he'd lost. 

He walked towards Kinfauns slowly, rubbing his eyes under his heavy sunglasses and keeping his head down. He was no good at apologizing. He was no good at this, being vulnerable, exposed and at someone's mercy : it made him biting and cruel, doing and saying anything to compensate the terrible feeling of not being in control. But he had to, this time. He needed to. He needed George. 

He managed to get past the the birds without getting spotted, his hair too ruffled and the look of utter misery on his face too intense to spell "Beatle", apparently. He took a deep breath and paused for a ciggie under the porch, hidden from the girl's eyes, unsure of what he'd even say to George. He puffed on the cigarette nervously, debating whether he ought to go back home and let it die, cursing himself for being such a coward, and didn't notice the birds stepping towards him curiously. 

He startled when a scream pierced his ears, the groupies having finally recognised him and rushing in his direction, thrusting notebooks, pens, pictures and new-born babies (well, maybe not, but almost, John though with a snort) in his face. 

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George walked back into the house, rubbing his cold bare arms and putting the kettle on for tea. He went to his bedroom, grabbing a jumper from the closet and slipping it on for warmth. He decided to have another go at the song he'd been working on and walked back into his music room. He felt it was some of the best stuff he'd written to date and refused to allow John's spiteful criticism to discourage him. 

He looked the lyrics over, chewing on the end of his pen. He was having trouble with the middle eight. "Had you come right now," he muttered, shaking his head. That didn't sound right but he scribbled it down nonetheless, followed by a question mark. 

The kettle whistled loudly, interrupting his writing session. He walked into the kitchen, setting the legal pad and pen on the table, turning the burner off, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting down at the table, ready to work again. Almost immediately, he was distracted by a chorus of screams coming from the front of the house. He sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. The last thing he wanted to do was to play 'affable Beatle George', but he knew he had to pop out and at least wave and say hello to give the fans their daily Beatle fix. 

He stepped into the living room, the commotion outside growing louder and louder, people banging at his front door, the doorbell ringing at an annoying fast rhythm. He instinctively knew that it was more than just the fans trying to get him to come out though, all too familiar with the sounds of mania. This type of screaming and crying only accompanied his band mates whenever they dropped by Kinfauns. 

He thought it might be Paul at first, since his mate seemed to receive the most visceral reactions. He opened the front door, surprised to see John standing on the other side and not so sure that he wanted to invite him in. John had said some terrible things and hurt him deeply but George just couldn't leave him outside with the fans. No matter how much John wounded him, George simply couldn't turn his back on him. The birds were grabbing at John, pulling on his hair and clothes. They wanted a piece of him, of all of them, and George sometimes wondered whether or not they'd literally rip tear them apart to get it. He grabbed John's arm, pulling him in, and quickly shut and locked the front door behind them. 

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John had had the time to sign a few autographs and to be seriously groped (some girl had fucking pinched his arse!) by the time George finally opened the door and bloody stared at him. John's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened a little, thinking for a second that maybe, just maybe, George was going to leave him here to deal with the fans on his own. His mate had finally gotten a move on though, and pulled him inside, allowing him to lean against the door as he closed and locked it. 

"I thought you was going to let them rip me to pieces, for a bit," he said, sounding a little shaky, not so much because of the girls but because he was seeing George for the first time in days with no one around, standing so close he could touch him. "Pattie here?" he asked neutrally, his mouth dry, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose to hide his tired and agitated eyes. 

"Out of town for the weekend. Modelling gig," George replied curtly, looking John over as he nodded. His mate looked shaken and he had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth down his ruffled hair. "You want a cuppa?" he asked, wanting to be welcoming even though he was still unsure of whether or not he really wanted to see John. 

"Don't you have anything stronger?" John replied after a beat, somewhat grateful that George was now looking over to the kitchen, his mate's eyes, deep as they'd always been, giving him the impression that the man could look right through him, read his heart as a book and discover what he was so desperately trying to deny. It was only the middle of the afternoon but if he was actually going to do what he'd planned, a glass or two would be more than welcome. 

"I've got scotch," George replied, walking into the kitchen, grabbing the half empty bottle and two glasses out of the cabinets. "Scotch's fine," John said as casually as he could, sitting down on the couch and fidgeting awkwardly, knowing it was probably making his nervousness obvious. He lit another cigarette, having pretty much chain-smoked since he'd stormed out of Kinfauns after his argument with George. John didn't know how to cope with this. He watched George slyly, unsure of how he would react, not knowing if he should even tell him. He sighed. Yes, he had too. Otherwise he'd lose him forever. 

George poured them both a glass and rejoined John in the living room, handing it to him and forgetting to breathe for a brief moment when their fingers brushed against each other. John's touch, regardless of whether or not it was overtly sexual, always affected George. "Why are you here?" he asked, looking at his mate, wanting to take those glasses off of him and see his eyes. 

John drowned the drink at once, feeling the unpleasant rush of alcohol going down his throat and up to his head a few seconds later. He took a few seconds to ponder George's reply. "It's not very easy to explain," he said slowly, his voice serious. "And it's difficult for me to say." He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, gritting his teeth. "Won't you sit down?" he asked, a little briskly. 

George felt that John could say what he needed to say whether he was sitting or not, knowing by the tone of his voice that it was important, though. George was afraid, positive that he'd come there to break things off with him, John's agitated and guarded demeanour reminding him of that afternoon three years ago, when he had ended things between the two of them with a callousness that still made George's throat tighten up with hurt. 

He swallowed hard, gripping the drink in his hand tightly and sitting down on a chair across from the couch, staring at the golden brown liquid in his glass, swirling it around before he took a sip. "If you're going to say it, at least take those bloody glasses off," he remarked bitterly, finishing the rest of his drink and placing it on the floor next to his chair. George eyed John, really looking at him for the first time since he stepped foot into his home, making him fidget a little. 

He seemed to be in a fucking bad mood, John thought, and he couldn't even blame him, really. It made him feel odd though, as if in pain. George's harshness was hurting him, John realised with a shiver, closing his eyes briefly as he removed his sunglasses. For the first time in all these years he was beginning to understand what it was like to be madly in love with someone who gave you the cold shoulder. Oh, fuck. What the hell was he going to do? He couldn't deal with that. He couldn't. He looked up to George, his eyes downcast and tired, slightly red-rimmed with anxiety, looking pale. 

George looked away; he didn't like seeing John upset. He wanted to make everything better and he resented John for being able to coax that reaction out of him without even trying, for making him feel sympathetic even though he'd obviously come here to break things off between the two of them. "Just go on it say it already, mate." His tone was cold and his dark eyes stayed guarded as he looked at John, the older lad swallowing dryly. 

"I..." he tried. What was he even going to say. I love you? Just like that? It was going to sound bloody ridiculous. I love you so much I don't even sleep at nights. Pathetic. George was just going to laugh in his face. He had to tell him though, get it out even if it hurt, even if he knew George would push him away. Just get it out once and for all, get his chest ripped open for good. He could always mend it afterwards, but he couldn't stand that cold burning inside of him anymore. Tell him. Tell. Him. "Do you know, why I went to Spain with Brian?" he heard himself say instead. Coward. 

George frowned, "No, I don't know why you went to Spain. And I don't want to know." John's shoulders slumped as he watched George grab his glass from the floor, stand up and walk into the kitchen. "George..." he called after him, playing with the rim of his own empty glass. He tried to swallow around the painful lump in his throat. George wasn't even interested to know about him anymore, just when John wanted to tell him everything. How pathetic was that? 

George poured himself another drink with shaky hands, taking steady breaths to calm his nerves. He did want to know, though. He wanted to know every little detail of why John had went on holiday with Brian, and what happened between the two of them. He just wasn't sure he could cope with what he'd learn. He walked back into the living room, carrying his glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and sat down in the same chair, topping off his drink before he placed the bottle onto the floor and took a long sip from his glass. John followed his moves with worried eyes, not sure that his mate getting drunk at this very moment was such a good idea. "Why did you go?" George sighed, briefly closing his eyes, positive that he wasn't going to like what his mate had to say. 

John stared into his empty glass, unable to look at George. He didn't beat around the bush, though. "I went 'cause I wanted to know if I was..." He made a face but got the word out. "Queer. And the answer is no." George's face fell but he quickly recovered his mask of indifference, glad that John wasn't looking at him in the eye. "I like Brian very much, but I didn't want him." He looked up hopefully. Saying that had made him feel a little better already. "I didn't want Brian, George. I never wanted any man but you. I'm not queer," he stated, sounding convinced and somewhat relieved about it. "I'm not queer, I..." I'm in love with you. Come on, Lennon. Say it. 

George gripped the glass tightly in his hand, fighting the urge to throw it at John's head. "Did you let him kiss you? Let him touch you?" he questioned, upset and shaking in anger. "Did you let him suck you off? Did you let him toss you off? What'd you do to him?" he asked jealously, finishing his drink off in one swallow. John's eyes widened in surprise and confusion, eyebrows furrowing and lips curving down, annoyed. "Don't be soft," he spat, glaring. "Didn't you listen to what I juss said? He wanted to but I couldn't. He kissed me. I felt nothing. Just vaguely sorry." He swallowed dryly. "I like Brian, but there was nothing, George" He gestured towards his crotch. "Zero. The kind of feeling you have kissing your brother goodnight." 

"That's why you came here, to tell me about bloody Spain?" George's voice raised in disbelief, having rather hoped that John had come over to apologize. John shook his head but he didn't pay attention. "All right. Now I know," George sighed, exasperated, the little patience he had for his mate having worn out. "If that's all, then." He stood, heading toward the front door, making John scramble to his feet, paying no mind to his empty glass falling on the floor and rolling on the carpet, unbroken. 

"It's not what I came to tell you, George," John ground out, eyes widening, heartbeat racing with dread. That was it, then. Either tell him or get out. He took in a shaky breath, looking to the side. He was going to be sick. He was going to break something. "Please," he mumbled as George's hand sat on the doorknob, his mate's patience apparently wearing thin. "I..." Oh, for fuck's sake. "I love you," he snapped suddenly, mouth dry and hands trembling. "I fucking love you. And it's driving me nuts, but I do." He fumed, feeling devastatingly vulnerable, all the air of the room having seemingly been sucked out of it by the uneasy silence that followed. 

"You're so incredibly selfish, do you know that?" George replied after a while, his voice low, thick and unsteady with emotion. "Just when I've found a bird like Pattie..." he trailed off, shaking his head, trying to process John's declaration. "You decided that you love me? How convenient," he drawled, his tone bitter and laced with sarcasm. "You love me?" he laughed, sneering at John with something akin to disgust. "You don't love me. You just don't want me to be happy, that's what this is all about." 

"I didn't decide any of it, George," John said, quietly. "It happened. It happened a long time ago, but since I'm such a stupid stupid git it took me too bleeding long to figure it out." He sighed and watched his shoes. "It's not like that. It's never been like that." He felt his eyes well up and he sniffled awkwardly, blinking quickly so he wouldn't cry, swallowing past the lump in his throat. George laughing at him felt like being dragged over shattered glass. John was expecting anger at the idea of being mocked and pushed away, blind rage that would have made it easier for him to deal with it, but there was nothing, nothing but pain. 

"You're welcome to believe it though, if you like. If it makes it easier for you," he stammered. George didn't love him. George didn't even think he was being genuine about it all. Too bloody late, Lennon, as usual. "I'll leave you alone, then." God , it hurt. The mere idea of walking away, facing the fans, going home to Cynthia and carrying on with his perfect Beatles life, without George, was... He was crying. John's eyes widened as he felt silent but heavy tears roll down his cheeks. He looked away, hoping George hadn't seen them, knowing he couldn't go out like this. "I just need to use your bathroom," he croaked out, striding out of the living room nervously. 

George was stunned. He couldn't remember ever having seen John cry and it took him a few seconds to collect himself, debating whether or not he should go after his friend, finally deciding that it would be best to wait and see when he came back. He sat down on the couch, anxiously chewing on his fingernail, not knowing what to do. He knew John well enough to be aware that he wasn't one to show this sort of emotion easily and that things would be awkward between the two of them, now. He was even rather certain that John would either lash out at him or act as if nothing had happened. It was slowly starting to sink in, though. John was in love with him. He rubbed the back of his head, looking up as the fans outside started chanting his and John's name, wanting them to sod off for once, knowing that he couldn't let his mate go out there. 

John stood in front of the bathroom mirror and watched his pale, crestfallen and teary-eyed reflection. He'd never seen himself cry, and it didn't happen too often, really. It was odd, very odd. He shook and sobbed silently for a few minutes, uncontrollably, trying not to make any noise, splashing water on his face and rubbing his eyes with a towel in hope of drying them. He needed to go home. He needed to go home, lay down in bed and pretend to be sick until he could face the world again. He had a shudder and fumbled for his sunglasses, hoping to hide his now red-rimmed and slightly puffy eyes. He put them on and walked back into the leaving room, not looking in George's direction. "I'll just go, then. See you around." He took a deep breath, and reached for the door.