George poured himself a cup of Masala Chai, the scent of spices and herbs filling his nose, surrounding him as he walked back into the living room. He took a cautious sip, watching the steam curl above his cup before he placed it onto the coffee table. John was supposed to stop by that afternoon. They hadn't agreed on a specific time, not much of a point on doing that with John, but George found himself checking his wrist watch all the same.

He settled into a cross-legged position on his plush cushion, hands briefly stroking the carpeted floor before he grabbed the sitar that waited against the low coffee table. He'd taken to the instrument and Eastern music in general with a great deal of enthusiasm. George wanted to do something Indian-inspired for their next album and so he had immersed himself in the culture, hoping to turn the others onto it, as well as their fans. He'd discovered a sense of peace through the teachings of Krishna, something that he hadn't thought to be possible surrounded as he was by the madness of being a Beatle.

Things had calmed down somewhat though, and there were no longer crowds of teenage birds hanging 'round outside his bungalow at all times. They still came by, some of them even boldly knocking on the front door, asking for pictures and autographs, but thankfully there was no more of that mania that used to go along with it. George moved his slender fingers across the sympathetic strings, playing an afternoon raga. He closed his eyes, knowing the melody by heart, and lost himself in the music.

It had been happening a lot recently, George engrossing himself so deeply in all things related to Indian culture that it didn't leave him much time for people who didn't share his interest. One of these people was John. He knew that he hadn't been spending enough time with his lover lately, but John had his own stuff going on that didn't leave a great deal of time for George either. He almost, almost missed touring because of that, since it had seemed to be the period when he and John spent the most time together, and quite easily, too.

"You shouldn't be leaving your front door open like that, you know," John said, leaning in the door frame with a soft smile on his face. Startled by the sound of his voice, George's once confident hands faltered on the strings and he lost the melody of the piece. Had it been anyone else's fault he would've been annoyed, but he'd been expecting John. George smiled sheepishly, setting the sitar to rest across his lap. "I hadn't even noticed I'd left it open. I must've forgotten to shut it all the way when I grabbed the paper this morning."

John grinned. "But what if a groupie had sneaked in and then proceeded to claw your clothing off?" he teased with a mocking gasp, stepping in and giving a light chuckle, knowing that this wasn't very likely to happen anymore these days. Not that George wasn't as handsome as ever with his hair longer and that smart little moustache of his, mind you. John hadn't fully gotten used to it yet, but he quite liked it. He thought it suited George's face.

Paul had been the first one to decide to grow a moustache to hide the scar he'd gotten from that car accident a while ago, his sense of vanity seemingly kicking in delayed. He'd showed up with it in the studio and, in an odd burst of sympathy or perhaps a lingering sense of follow-the-leader, they'd all grown a moustache to match his. John thought his own made him look rather goofy, like an oddly prim Victorian gentleman. People seemed to find that it made him less intimidating to talk to though, and that was good enough for him. But George's was good. His lover began playing his sitar again, picking up where he'd left off with ease, briefly looking over at John as his shut the door.

"You must have me confused with Paul. No gate birds to be found here." John cooed, watching George with both eyebrows raised, shaking his head. "Yeah, right. Who are you trying to convince with that, eh?" He rolled his eyes playfully, knowing fully well that George got his fair share of birds, as they all did. John didn't mind or, rather, didn't allow himself to mind. George wasn't his in that way, and he never would be.

He sat next to his mate, stretching his thin legs under the coffee table. "Playing that thing again?" He kissed George's cheek briefly, unsure of whether Pattie was there or not, and bumped their shoulders together. John was in a rather nice mood that day. He'd smoked a joint before leaving home and was still pretty relaxed, having spent the entire day reading at Kenwood. He watched George's fingers slide on the strings amorously as he went on with his little melody, smiling. John didn't hate the sitar, he found that it had an interesting sound to it, but much like most of this India-related stuff, he didn't really get what George seemed to be so enthralled by.

George nodded, finishing the piece off with a flourish of finger slides. "I play it every day," he replied serenely, placing the instrument against the coffee table and settling into a more comfortable position than the one he sat in to play. "You're going to turn into one, if you go on like that," John drawled quietly, taking George's tea up and sniffling it carefully before he took a sip from it, spices tickling his palate.

George grinned. "It wouldn't be so bad if you played me." He wiggled his eyebrows, making John chuckle. "Get your mind out of the gutter," he stated playfully, his eyes fond. "'sides, I don't know how to play the bloody sitar." He splayed his fingers on the small of his lover's back briefly, drumming up his spine with a small grin. "Know how to play you, though." George gave him a little look.

"What've you been doing, mn?" John asked curiously, realising he hadn't seen much of George that week. It wasn't that he didn't love him anymore, or that he didn't miss him when he was away, but there was so much going on for him right then, that he just didn't have enough time to do everything he wanted. "Great deal of reading about Eastern culture, mostly. I'm still meditating and keeping up with the sitar," George replied easy-goingly, motioning to the instrument. "Oh, and I visited my family in Speke."

John hummed, eyes fond. "You know what I did today?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I dug a hole in the garden. Quite a big one. Jules helped a little, too." George laughed, finding the conjured up mental picture of John and Julian digging a hole for absolutely nothing quite amusing. "Did you quit before you made it to China?" he asked, playfully, poking John in the side. John poked him back. "It wasn't for that, you nit." He looked at George, eyebrows raising in amusement behind his glasses. "It's for the clouds, you know? If they start dripping, I'll put 'em in there."

"You're high, Johnny," George grinned, patting his lover's thigh. "Am not!" John protested. "It was in the book." He smiled to himself, taking another sip from George's tea as his lover hummed, eyebrows furrowing. "Passionfruit, right?" John chuckled. "Something like that." George remembered the book, John had mentioned it often and even bought him a copy of it a few weeks ago. He'd flipped through it, finding it quite original and somewhat amusing, but he hadn't taken it too seriously.

"Enjoying that tea? I can pour you a cup if you'd like, love." John only grinned. "It's better if it's yours, George. You know what else I did? I watched the sun until it became square. Took me some time to get it, but it did, at some point." He tapped his temple, eyes fond. "In there."

"And how long did it take for the sun to become square, eh?" George asked, amused, leaning against John and reaching out to take hold of his hand, rubbing the back of it with his calloused thumb. He raised it to his mouth, kissing it lovingly. "A while." John watched him with soft eyes. "Pattie's gone out, for shopping and lunch in the city with friends," George explained, quietly.

John smirked, cupping George's face and running his thumb over his moustache, still finding the feeling curious. "Is that supposed to have some sort of coded meaning?" he teased, leaning closer and pressing his lips to George's briefly. "Should I take it as a hint?" He kissed George a little more firmly, not putting real force in it because he knew it would be risky to do anything more than this right then.

"I didn't want you to feel uptight," George drawled against John's mouth, making him giggle and nip on his lower lip, grinning as George pecked him affectionately. "Yeah, right. Never know when I'm going to decide to feel uptight, eh?" he teased.

George ran his slender fingers through his mate's shortly shorn hair and John leaned in until his nose was pressed to his cheek, breathing in his warm and familiar smell. George slipped his hand out of his lover's auburn locks and gave his shoulder a loving squeeze. "You didn't happen to catch Paul on the telly did you?" he snorted, rolling his eyes. John made a face, propping his chin on George's shoulder. "No, I missed his great moment of revelation. Managed to catch him on the front page of every newspaper in town, though."

George sighed, shaking his head. "You'd never guess he'd been the most resistant to try it, either," he pointed out astutely, finding it quite annoying that Paul had spoken out about his use of LSD when he'd been the last one out of the four of them to even try it, let alone enjoy it. John snorted, leaning back with a sigh, playing with one of his flowery necklaces. "He likes making these big announcement, doesn't he? Always fucking times 'em on the letter, too."

He scrunched up his nose in distaste, snorting, before his eyes widened in realisation. "Oh, shit. I was trying to do Cleaning Piece III again. I flunked it, again." He chuckled, shaking his head. "It's much more difficult than you'd expect it to be, not saying anything wrong about anyone."

George raised his thick eyebrows in a questioning manner. "Cleaning Piece III?" he remarked curiously, absently-mindedly running his finger over his moustache. John grinned and reached out to touch George's moustache as well. "You got that from that funky Japanese bird again, right?" he asked, thinking of the time John had brought her to the studio for one of their recording sessions.

The other three hadn't known what to make of her presence. There was a sort of unspoken rule about not bringing wives, girlfriends or birds around when they were working. The studio was the band's territory so to speak, a man's world, in which even Brian wasn't allowed unless a tune was in its final mixing stages. Her presence had caused a bit of awkwardness for the other three Beatles, but John had failed to notice it or chosen to ignore the shift in mood.

She hadn't seemed too interested though and had mostly kept to herself. The session had been short and John had left with her early, George easily guessing that he would take her to that place in the city they owned. It was a small flat, not exactly a secret but kept quiet, where they sometimes went to be together, staying the night and calling the wives to tell them that a session had run late and they wouldn't be home until the next day. John also occasionally brought birds there to shag. It didn't bother George, who did the same thing from time to time. They both had women on the side, it didn't mean anything.

"Refresh my memory about this cleaning piece thing?" he requested, grabbing his cup and taking a sip from the tea John had been kind enough not to drink. George might not have dug Yoko's book that much, but it was hard not to share John's enthusiasm whenever he spoke about something he found genuinely interesting. If only he could get John to feel that way with Krishna, they'd have even more to share with one another.

"It's about cleansing yourself of negativity, you know? There are several ones, but this one's tricky. You've got to try and not say anything wrong about anyone for three days, and see how that affects your life. I thought it was going to be easy, ya know." John gave a little chuckle. "But it's not. I've been trying all week, and I don't think I managed more than half a day, so far." He stroked George's cheek with the back of his fingers. "What d'you think? Your Krishna buddies would approve of that, no? Letting go of negativity," he mused, wondering whether perhaps, all roads did lead to the same place, after all.

"I think they would approve, yeah. I might have to try that as well. If you do have negative thoughts you can turn them into positive ones through chanting too, you know? It helps me when I'm annoyed with you." John snorted. "Well Hare Krishna, then," he retorted, kissing George's temple and smiling against his long hair, holding his lover close. George leaned in to press a soft kiss to his grinning mouth, playfully tugging on John's talisman necklace. 

George had first spotted it in one of those trendy shops down on Carnaby Street and hadn't hesitated long before buying it as a gift for John. It was intricately linked with a mysterious Indian tradition, and supposed to protect the wearer as well. If the décor at Kenwood was any indication, John liked collecting odd things, and George knew that the added twist of it having magical powers would appeal to his lover. It had seemed to work, John seldom going out without it these days.

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Sitting on a mat with his eyes partially closed, George tried to focus on a simple breathing technique, attempting to calm his mind and develop some inner peace. The others were supposed to be doing the same thing, and George wondered whether it was proving just as difficult for them as it was for him. Before he could even attempt to move onto the Lamrim stage of meditation as instructed, he first had to block out the distractions that surrounded him and to clear his mind, to get rid of the heavy thoughts weighing it down. He focused on breathing naturally through his nostrils, not trying to force the action.

His mind seemed to fill with ideas like a cup filled with a pitcher of water that overflowed. There were so many different trains of thoughts colliding in his head and George was tempted to follow every single one that entered his mind. He had successfully avoided doing so for the moment, and remained focused on the sensation of breathing. But even when all the other thoughts had disappeared into nothingness, Brian remained heavy and persistent on his mind.

Learning about his death had been upsetting for him. Brian had been the one to take a chance on them when no one else thought they'd be bigger than the Mersey Beat scene, just another Liverpool band playing rock n' roll. Those were a dime a dozen, but Brian had seen something special in them. And then, he was gone, just like that. If only he had left with them, he'd still be alive. George couldn't wrap his mind around it.

They had been told that grieving would only hold Brian's spirit back from moving on. Where he was going, there would no longer be any suffering for him and they were supposed to celebrate his life instead of mourning him. George couldn't, though. He'd loved Brian and thought of him as family. How could you not grieve for family?

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"Clear your head," the Maharishi said. "Empty it from any thought, good or bad. Only when your mind is empty, can you meditate." John had an inner snort. Well, he certainly felt empty enough. The news of Brian's death had stunned him, like a blow in the plexus. He'd looked up at the cold sky, stretching huge above him and startling in its colour. John'd wanted to yell at it, ask for answers and make it the recipient for his anger, but let's face it, the sky didn't give a damn.

John swallowed down the painful lump that had grown in his throat, tightening it. He let his thoughts run free, not even trying to meditate. It didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything anymore. After his mum, after Stuart, Brian had left him too. Abandoned him. John focused on his breathing in a feeble attempt to calm down, just enough to keep it even and avoid drawing attention upon himself. What was it with him that made all the persons he liked and care for disappear because of him? First his mum, because she'd been visiting Mimi to see him that day, then Stuart, because John had dragged him over to Hamburg, and now Brian, overdosing on the very pills John had introduced him to for a little added relaxation.

To say that John felt guilty didn't even begin to cover it. He felt so guilty he could barely breathe, red dots appearing behind his closed eyelids. But mostly, mostly he felt angry. Betrayed. Brian had no right to do that to him. How could the man have been so careless, and taken all those pills, giving up on the band, giving up on John? The fact that John hadn't always been as good as he should have to Brian didn't help, either.

They hadn't been especially at odds before he'd left for Bangor, but the unease between them was far deeper and far more ancient than this. It went all the way back to Hamburg, to John mocking Brian for being queer, yelling at him when the man had let on that he found him attractive, scared shitless as he'd been. Then there had been the Barcelona accident, George, Beatlemania, and now Brian was dead. He could have sworn it was only yesterday that they had been invited to have a cup of tea in the man's office, John purposefully pushing apart two folds of carefully filed contracts to set his saucer on the desk.

He didn't know how to cope with death, he'd never known. The Maharishi had been trying to teach him, to teach them, but it hadn't worked so well for the moment. John's reaction at the news of Brian's death had been the same as ever, that first, disgustingly powerful burst of relief, followed by increasingly hysterical cackles. It's not me this time. It's not me.

It had lasted for while, John locking himself up in his room, waiting for it to die down, for the emptiness to creep inside his chest and push his heart flat against his ribcage, taking all the space. Then only he'd consented to face the Press, a swarm of journalists already waiting for them, eager to prey on their despair. And after that, there had been meditation. Useless sitting around on thick rugs, surrounded by the scent of incense.

John opened his eyes. George was sitting there very focused, his eyebrows furrowed; Ringo was sniffling quietly in his corner; but Paul's eyes were wide and looked a little frantic, staring into John's with what he didn't dare asking aloud, yet. What are we going to do now?

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Finding it impossible to centre himself and clear his mind, George opened his eyes as well. Paul and John were looking at one another, communicating without saying a word. It reminded him of all those writing sessions he had been excluded from, and it would still have made him pretty jealous until only a few months ago. But not now. He had changed, everything had changed.

Paul looked almost panicked and John wasn't that much better honestly, although George suspected their concerns were not exactly the same. It was jarring to see Paul look that worried, when he was usually so cool, calm and collected, at least in front of the press. Seeing that façade crack, even just a little bit, gave George serious reason to be concerned about their future.

Paul suddenly spoke up, looking at the Maharishi. "I think the four of us need to be alone." His voice was soft but firm, drawing the attention of the other lads and of their small entourage. "If you must," the guru smiled, nodding his head in understanding. He slipped his hand onto Paul's shoulder, giving it a firm and sympathetic squeeze. "Do not dwell in thoughts of negativity." John held back a snort and glanced at George for reassurance, getting up as well.

The four of them quietly left the meditation room, not saying a word until Paul had led them back to the small dorm-like room he was sharing with Jane. They were really 'roughing' it while in Wales. The room where they had their meals would've been more adequate for a band meeting, but Paul didn't want anyone to overhear their conversation, not putting it past the Maharishi's students to run to the press about what they'd hear.

They all stood in the small room awkwardly, the nude walls suddenly stifling. Ringo was the first one to speak, breaking the heavy silence. "Brian." He shook his head, at a loss. George sat down in the only chair, chewing on his fingernail absent-mindedly. He would have preferred to stay meditating, putting off the inevitable conversation for just a bit longer. "He always did take a lot of pills," Paul said quietly, sounding sad and almost reproachful. "Don't we all?" John hissed, giving him a cold look.

There was another lengthy pause and Paul sat on his single bed, eyes on the bare floor. "We need to find someone to replace him," he said, after a while. They all looked at him as if he'd grown a second head and he raised his hands in the air, placating. "Not right now, I'm not saying we can't mourn him," he threw a disapproving look to the door, the sound of the Maharishi's chanting managing to reach them, muffled. "You can't replace Brian, though," Ringo said gently, blue eyes downcast. "Can't go on without a manager, either," Paul pointed out.

"Don't see why not," John grumbled, rather adverse to the idea of anyone taking Brian's place, even professionally. "Every band has a manager, John," Paul said, a little briskly. John just looked at him. "Yeah, but we've always been in control of what we've been doing, eh? Brian gave us advice to hit the big times, and we followed them, but now that we're there, we do what we want." He frowned, shaking his head. "Don't want anyone bossing us 'round and telling us what to do. I don't think you'd like that either, would you?"

Paul sighed, knowing that it was useless to push the matter right then. "No, but people for advertising, doing the merchandising, planning gigs and albums, all that?" John sat down on Jane's bed, slipping his trembling hands under his thighs to hide them. "Yeah, sure. Could 'ave an office or something," he stated, trying his best to sound self-assured and confident that this wouldn't really impair their future as a band. He didn't have any misconceptions about their own ability to do anything but play music, and still the idea of hiring an overbearing man to handle their careers was daunting. "We'll do what we 'ave to do."

"Brian'd have wanted us to go on," Ringo stated softly. "Continue with the band, with what he planned for us." John hummed, looking away. "What else can we do?" George sounded upset, looking over at John, but his lover was far too lost in his own thoughts to acknowledge it. Noticing his anguish, Ringo reached out and patted his shoulder. "We'll figure it out." His words were optimistic but his eyes were sad.

George nodded, not finding any comfort in Ringo's words but thankful for the effort the other man displayed. He looked over at John once again, only then noticing that he was sitting on his hands, trying in vain to hide their shaking. He wanted to go to him and reassure him that everything would be all right, but he couldn't do that in front of Paul and Ringo.

"So, it's settled then?" Paul asked with finality, looking at his band mates. John glanced at him warily, not thinking that anything was settled, not really. Ringo nodded weakly and George only frowned at the mention of things being 'settled'. You couldn't settle death now, could you? Talking about business so soon after Brian's death and in a retreat that was supposed to be about finding peace felt wrong and callous.

"We'll go on and find ourselves another manager, then?" Paul proposed once more, making John frown. "Fuck off, McCartney," he groused, not liking the way his mate seemed to overlook everything he'd said so far. Paul sighed a little. "Not someone who'd be able to control us, John. We'll decide what we want to do ourselves, from now own. Just a few competent people to handle the business issues neither of us has any interest in taking up, all right?" He looked at John, who just stared at the floor blankly. "Fuck off," he repeated, defeated.

George's throat tightened and he spoke up, looking at Paul. "We came here to find peace and enlightenment." Paul snorted, having heard enough of that from the Maharishi but George went on, undeterred. "I think we should continue on that path and have this conversation when we get back to London. There isn't anything we can do from here." Paul begrudgingly nodded his head and glanced at John who hummed in agreement, rather grateful for the interruption. George was right, there was nothing to do right then but to take advantage of the respite from the chaos that was their lives, which was probably about to get worse. 

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Unable to sleep George got out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. He soundlessly left the room, walking through the darkened hallways, sandal-clad feet making no noise as he crossed the old floorboards. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Brian, meditation not managing to soothe him. He stepped outside, trying to push his doubts about the Maharishi and the basic principles of Hinduism to the back of his mind. George needed something to believe in, and the teachings he'd listened to thus far had given him peace of mind, allowing him to put his overwhelming fame into some sort of perspective.

John was not faring much better, sitting on the windowsill of the meditation room smoking endless cigarettes, until the ruffled pack tucked under his leg had been completely empty. Too dazed to get up and look for another one, he'd stayed motionless for a long moment, fingers sometimes twitching spasmodically against his thigh.

George hadn't even realized he'd wandered into the garden of the meditation centre until he took in his surroundings : the same spot he and John would usually go off to when they wanted to be alone. There, there were no wives, other Beatles or stifling fame to deal with, it was just him and John. He sat down in the grass, lying back and looking up at the night sky.

It had been out of pure luck that John'd managed to make out George slipping between the trees of the garden, his thin shadow dressed in white, projecting a curious dark light against the black trunks around him. He hadn't followed him straight away, knowing where he was going, and instead had observed his lover as he disappeared between the trees, looking oddly ethereal, sleep-walking, phantom-like.

But George was no ghost, he was real and obviously upset, enough to seek the comfort of the garden at night. Shaking his torpor John got up, padding down the stairs and out in the cool air, shivering as he crossed the patch of lush grass that led to "their" spot, his feet bare. George was lying there under the old tree that usually shaded their encounters. John didn't know which kind of tree it was (he wasn't too good at telling trees apart) but he rather liked it, with its bent and humble trunk and its somewhat mangy leaves. 

He took care of making a little noise as he approached, not wanting to startle George, and sat down next to his lover, the plush grass feeling a little cold against his bum through the light material of his pants. George knew it was him without having to look. "I couldn't sleep." He sat up, pressing his thighs against his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. "I figured. Couldn't sleep either." Johns shifted closer, his side against George's, seeking his warmth in the cold night. 

"I keep thinking of Brian," George confessed quietly, feeling that John would understand his inability to let go of the sadness over his death. He rested his chin on his knee, looking over at his mate, who sighed. "Yeah." John knew he didn't need to say more. He glanced at George's sad, tired eyes, reaching to take his hand and run his calloused thumb against the back of it.

"Been thinking too." John looked back at the sky, the rising moon reflected in his glasses. "People juss keep dying, don't they?" George didn't say anything but raised John's hand, bringing it to his mouth and pressing what he hoped would be a soothing kiss against it. He knew John had had to cope with a lot of deaths in his life already, and dealt with it differently than most people did, in a way that almost couldn't be considered normal. 

Stu's death, for instance. George hadn't been there to witness it (and even if he had, he didn't think John would have let on anything to him, back then), but Paul had told him that he'd burst into a hysterical laughing fit, cackling for hours when he'd learnt about it. John smiled a little to George and tried as hard as he could not to think about the day his lover would leave him, too. "Maharishi's not helpin' much," he stated for the sake of conversation, glancing at George, looking more defeated than provocative.

George sighed, knowing that there was some truth to John's words. The Maharishi's intentions were good, but he could understand why John was having a hard time letting go since he was experiencing the same thing. George hadn't lost his faith in the teachings he'd learnt thus far, but he could see John's cynicism creeping in and it concerned him. 

John and he hadn't grown apart per se but they were pursuing plenty of interests that didn't include each other, and this enticement for India and its philosophy was one of the few things they still shared. It was something that could still bring them together, but if John was beginning to have doubts about it already, George thought he might have to worry a bit more about their future together.

"Or maybe he's right but we're juss too thick to see it?" John added after a few seconds of silence, not liking the sad way George's eyebrows had furrowed. He didn't want to get into an argument about Eastern religion with George, not then, of all times. "Ma'be it gets easier once you know the 'secret' he's been holding from us, once you've completed your learning?" he proposed hopefully, both because he wanted to cheer George up and please him, and because he actually wanted to believe it. You couldn't change death, no way, but you could change your way of looking at it, John reckoned.

George nodded, holding on to the idea that with time, the teachings about not grieving a loved one would become clear to him. "Maybe." His smile was wistful, thinking about Brian as he remembered him being sometimes, a mother hen who would and had done anything for his 'boys'. Still George knew that, as difficult as this whole ordeal had been for him and the others, it must have been even harder for John. 

He knew what had happened between John and Brian in Spain (or rather, what hadn't happened), but he also knew they had a unique sort of relationship, John probably seeing a bit of himself in Brian and having difficulty accepting that. It seemed to George that John always took out his anger on others for faults that he refused to see in himself. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked, dark eyes filled with concern.

John gave his hand a squeeze and leaned in to press his forehead against the side of George's face. "I don't know. I s'pose," he whispered. He kissed George's cheek very gently, feeling stubble against his lips. "I know we're not supposed to mourn because he's moved on to somewhere better, but we can still miss him, right?" he asked, looking for George's eyes. His lover nodded, a small grin gracing his once pensive face. "It'll be our secret, eh?" He bumped his arm against John's, who chuckled. "Don't tell anyone or they'll have us chant mantras until we drop dead from exhaustion!" he mock-gasped, watching George fondly.

"D'you want to go and meditate again, juss you an' I?" John thought about sitting in the darkness of the meditation room, the old carpet thin under his bare feet, cold and comforting, staying there with George, face to face, holding hands amidst the sweetly scented air. "C'mon," he coaxed, and George smiled to him.

"I'd like that. A lot." He stood up, holding out his hand to help John up. He'd take alone time with his mate whenever he could get it, and getting to meditate and to be with John at the same time was pretty much anything George could want for such an evening. 

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John was sitting in that damned bus -or whatever this yellow-and-blue thingy straight out from one of Paul's acid-induced dream was supposed to be- window side, waving to the crowd of reporters outside and actually not trying too hard to look like he was having the time of his life.

George was sitting next to him, sleeping, almost disappearing behind his huge sunglasses, his fancy hat, that smart moustache and the ridiculously large jacket he had taken to wear those days. They had been shooting that scene in which John was supposed to fall asleep on George's shoulder repeatedly, until George got fed up and pushed him away. Little would the audience realise that he was actually quite fond of sleeping with his head on George's shoulder, John thought.

George was snoring lightly, his lips parted, and John idly contemplated slipping something in his mouth as a prank, his tea spoon or a pencil, before he decided against it, closing it gently instead, chuckling as George muttered in his sleep. He watched him lovingly, wincing when yet another salve of flashes shot outside.

Staying inside the coach with his drooling lover wasn't that thrilling but it was still better than being out in the open, right then. There at least the air was (relatively) free from the crackle of the reporters' camera and from the banter of the extras waiting to shoot another scene. And on top of that, it was also free from Paul McCartney bouncing everywhere happily like a chipmunk on coke. Non-neglectable fact, that.

It wasn't that he disliked him, really, Paul. He'd always had this tendency to be proper and excited about things, the ideal son-in-law making arty projects with his arty friends who thought they were so much better than everyone because they belonged to this avant-garde movement. Avant-garde a clue, as George would say.

Most of them were such phoneys, John even wondered how Paul could be so easily fooled by them. Maybe because they were his enablers, too. They weren't modern art. They were just fat-headed gits pretending to be clever. And kinda failing, John had to say. Now, that funky Japanese bird he'd met at the gallery a while ago. That had been concept art. That had been brilliant. John hummed to himself, remembering that he still had to reply to her last letter (something about planting light bulbs), and scratched his stubbly chin.

That movie was a fucking nuisance. None of them actually had a damn clue about how to shoot a movie, and Paul strutting around thinking that it was so GREAT pissed John off even more. He scrunched his nose up in distaste. The leash Paul held on him was shorter those days. They hadn't really hired another manager yet, since Paul had seemed to be willing to take up the part in the mean time. They'd let him, mostly because none of them wanted to do it. It was convenient in a way, but it also seemed to slowly poison John's relationship with him. John did not deal well with authority figures, and coke and Brian's death had made Paul bossy and self-conceited.

John wasn't sure of what was happening and of where this would all lead to, but he was beginning to suspect that things might be slowly falling apart. He looked over to George, still sleeping, and patted his knee gently, suddenly needing company. His lover yawned silently and opened his eyes. "John?" He looked disorientated, drowsily wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before taking in his surroundings and sighing when he realized he was still on the bus.

When Paul had proposed the idea for the Magical Mystery Tour, George hadn't been entirely convinced either. Still, he'd also been a doubter of the 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' thing, which had been Paul's idea as well, and it'd ended up being quite good. Whatever the band touched turned to gold, so why should this be any different? He couldn't help but wonder where this tour was taking them, though. To hell, if anyone was to ask George, but no one ever really asked him anything and, if they did, his opinion wasn't given serious consideration. So he mostly kept it to himself.

Paul seemed to run the band these days, at least creatively. To George, if John had undeniably once been the leader of the group, the balance of power was shifting. More often than not, people seemed to confer with Paul when dealing with problems and it had become even more glaringly obvious as filming for "Magical Mystery Tour" began. He looked through the window, spotting Ringo chatting easy-goingly with extras, but not Paul. He had a good idea of where he was though, probably outside bossing people around and making sure 'his vision' translated well. George snorted to himself, trying to remember when Paul had become such a pompous wanker. All the meditating in the world hadn't managed to rid George of those negative thoughts about Paul.

He finally sat forward. "Is it time for us to film?" He looked around the bus, seeing no cameras set up for a scene, wiping at the corner of his mouth again, self-consciously. "Nah," John replied, bumping his shoulder against George's. He wanted to lean against him, snuffle his neck and wrap his arms around his lover's waist to hold him close, but there was still a flock of journalists prowling outside and all he could do was press his shoulder to George's. "Juss felt lonely, wanted some company." He smiled to George, patting his knee again. "You all right?"

"Fine." George's response was curt. He was clearly annoyed but it had nothing to do with John and he immediately softened, looking apologetic. "I think we've been on this bus for far too long." He stretched his arms over his head, looking out of the window once more. Ringo had disappeared from view. "I feel like we're putting on one of those silly BBC productions. I hated doing those, you know." George hadn't always felt that way but time had altered his feelings about the past. 

John frowned and was about to point out they'd actually had fun during some of these little skits, but George was quicker. "Well, singing 'Moonlight Bay' on Morecombe and Wise wasn't that awful," he relented, knowing that not everything they'd done as up and coming stars was cause for feeling embarrassed. John chuckled. "That wasn't so bad. You were being a smartarse."

He nudged George in the ribs, trying to cheer him up. George was no fun when he was like that and although John sometimes enjoyed getting a rise out of him for the sake of aggravating him even further, mind games weren't what he needed now. His lover chuckled, rubbing the tip of his finger over his moustache. "Well, we didn't get to do a lot of clever things. Couldn't help myself from having fun with it." John nodded, raising his eyebrows. "Most of it was fucking rubbish but you've gotta do what you've gotta do, eh?" he mused, grinning at George and nudging him again, making him sigh. "We must've done every television program known to man." His voice had taken on a tone of amusement, remembering the cheesiest skits they'd had to perform. "At least," John teased.

"You an' I were the only ones soft enough to be coaxed into bein' in drag, weren't we?" He snorted at the memory of his Thisbe impersonation. The whole Shakespearean spoof had been ridiculous enough but, of course, John had had to be even sillier than the rest of them. "What was that name of yours again?" he asked, eyes narrowing at the memory of George wearing that skirt that kept on sliding down his skinny hips until someone finally decided to tie it around his narrow waist with a piece of string.

George shrugged casually but he answered far too quickly for there to be any truth to his words. "I can't recall." He scratched the side of his nose, ignoring the knowing grin on John's face. Truth be told, he was to that day still a little bit embarrassed about having been the girl in a skit. "Your princess impersonation was spot on. Best actor -actress- out of the lot of us," he pointed out teasingly. John merely snorted. "Did it turn you on?" he drawled suggestively, although his Thisbe impersonation had been anything but arousing. Far too scandalous, that'd have been.

"Oh, yes." George batted his eyelashes playfully. "It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to pounce on you right then and there." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Good thing I didn't, though. I don't think it would've been good for our image." John watched him from above his round glasses, smirking. "Who cares 'bout our image..." he drawled, although he knew that George and he disclosing their relationship was still impossible, in spite of the new-found open-mindedness of their fans. "I'll have to see if I can find that dress again..." he mused, throwing George a grin, who bumped their shoulders together in reply.

"Do you realize it's been ages since we've been alone?" George looked around the empty bus. All of the press, extras and crew were outside but they still weren't alone in the true sense of the word. He slipped his hand on top of John's, giving it a companionable squeeze. "Been busy, haven't we?" John patted his hand and sighed when he realised it was true. They hadn't consciously wanted to see less of each other but, pursuing different interests, they had had less time to spend together. "Could always plan an afternoon alone at the flat, mn?" John proposed, raising an eyebrow.

George nodded, thinking it was a fantastic idea. The thought of spending even just an afternoon alone with John made him incredibly happy, giving him something to look forward to. "I like the way your mind works, mate." He grinned, giving his lover a thumbs up. "Suppose we should go out there?" The lack of enthusiasm was evident in his voice, and made John chuckle. "Let's. Buckle up, son." He grinned, nodding towards Paul stomping in direction on the coach, looking quite pissed off. George groaned.

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John woke up with a terrible headache, rolling on his front in the bed he still shared with Cynthia, not too surprised to see that she had already gotten up. The sheets were cold as he draped them around himself, and only faintly smelt of her, making him wonder whether she'd gone to bed at all. He didn't remember much of what had happened after the ride they'd gotten home, the night before. 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding winter sun coming through the heavy curtains, temples thudding as he simultaneously remembered why he felt so low and tried not to throw up. He'd drunk, and a lot, that much he knew for sure. But that had been at the club, later that night, not at the fancy dress party he'd attended with Cynthia right after dinner. 

It'd seemed fun at first, getting to dress up like a Teddy-Boy with Pete Shotton, heavy boots, leather pants and jacket, combing his hair back into a duck tail, remembering how to do it as easily as if he'd never stopped. Cyn had seemed to find it amusing as well, going as a posh Victorian lady or something. They'd swung by to Kew to get his father and his girlfriend, John still finding it slightly amazing to have his dad partly back in his life, and looking for his support in his idea of marrying his nineteen-year old girlfriend, nothing less. That wasn't what John felt queasy about, (they seemed to be really in love, so why not?) but it had certainly added to the oddness of the evening.

It'd gotten bad as they'd arrived, a crowd having gathered in front of the place they were having the party in, screaming and pressing around him in a sea of crazed eyes and clawing fingers, unwelcome reminder of Beatlemania. John hadn't liked that, not one bit. Still, they'd gotten through, only to find that quite a few gatecrashers had managed to slip in. John'd had a few drinks to steady himself and a smoke with Lulu, looking quite cute in her baby Shirley Temple outfit, complete with flowers and oversized lollipop.

And then the Harrisons had arrived. George'd looked handsome in his pirate outfit (John was beginning to think George would look handsome in just about anything), but Pattie was the one turning all heads in a risqué see-through Eastern belly dancer outfit that indeed showed off her belly, and pretty much all the rest of her body as well. John had always more or less overtly joked about fancying Pattie, and he hadn't resisted making a friendly pass at her this time again, inviting her for the next dance with panache.

And that had been when things had gotten out of hand. John wasn't sure of what had gone wrong. Sure, he did fancy Pattie in a way, she'd always reminded him of Brigitte Bardot and she'd looked very desirable that evening, but he'd never have considered actually having sex with her, or even being flirtatious in front of everyone else before. Still, as he danced with her for tune after tune, he didn't even try to hide his interest. Perhaps it had had something to do with George just sitting there chatting with people, looking totally unfazed by what was happening, his lover making a pass at his wife at a very public party.

John rolled on his other side, letting out an angry huff, pushing the bedsheets away with unnecessary force. It had been silly, John knew it even though he would never have admitted it, and that made him even angrier at George and at himself; but he'd been hurt, in a way, to see how seemingly indifferent his lover had been to the whole thing. John would never actually shag Pattie, and perhaps George knew that, but his lack of reaction had sunk its icy claws in John's chest, entrancing him, as if under a spell, to push further and further, to see what he would have to do to make George bloody care.

John wanted George jealous, not because another man was flirting with his wife, but because he was obviously interested in someone that wasn't George. Their relationship had never been exclusive and still, John had seen satisfying flashes of jealousy pass in George's eyes from time to time, reassuring him that their love was still there, acute and overwhelming as ever. But not the night before. That night, he'd danced with Pattie for the whole evening until Lulu had taken it upon herself to stop the disaster, shouting at him for making such a fool of himself.

John'd flushed and muttered something vaguely apologetic, taking her remonstrances passively, only looking up when she'd angrily asked him how he could be so mean to his wife. John'd blinked and looked over to Cynthia, sitting there looking miserable in her Crinoline dress,worrying her invitation card between shaky fingers. He'd barely felt guilty though, absorbed as he'd been in not glancing in George's direction, weary of the look in his eyes. 

They'd gone to that club and John'd drunk to drown his own stupidity, eventually falling asleep in the car that drove them home, the memory of his father petting his hair closing the night on a more pleasant if slightly surreal impression. He sat up in bed, knowing he had to call George. But to say what?

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

George was sitting on the carpeted floor of his music room with his right foot on his left thigh in the half lotus position, eyes partially closed. He tried to focus on breathing through his nose and clearing his head, but his thoughts kept returning to the events of the night before. 

John had spent the majority of it with Pattie, dancing the evening away and making fools out of him and Cynthia. He hadn't found it amusing, but he'd tried to hide his displeasure, chatting with friends and not looking at the ridiculous spectacle they made together. He'd had a good mind to ask Cynthia for a dance in return, but had decided against it; she'd looked absolutely miserable and he hadn't wanted her to bring him down even further.

He couldn't figure why, out of all the women at the party, John had had to dance with his wife time and time again. The matter had bothered him all evening, so much that he hadn't even given any thought to the reason why his wife kept accepting John's offers to dance. 

He was used to his peers thinking that she was quite attractive, but there were times when it seemed, at least to him, that John could barely manage to conceal his dislike for Pattie, and that was why he couldn't figure out why he'd suddenly had the whim of spending the whole evening with her. All the same, he still found himself growing increasingly jealous at each and every flirtatious pat and stroke Pattie gave him, at the way he pulled her obscenely close, gazing into her eyes just as he looked at him when they made love, or so George thought.

He'd learned through the Maharishi's teachings that jealousy was a useless emotion to dwell in. No good could come from harbouring such negative feelings, but George was only human. He and John had an understanding when it came to seeing other birds on the side, but it didn't mean that, from time to time, George's jealousy didn't linger just below the surface. It had been the case the night before, but he'd refrained from making a scene. 

He knew his lover and the games he played, and George refused to participate. Had this happened a few years earlier he might have slapped Pattie, the same way that he'd slapped Patricia Inder when he'd found out that she and John had a thing going, or cut in and pulled her off to the side and stuck with her for the rest of the night. He was evolving though, and was no longer controlled by what he believed to be petty emotions. His feelings for John were still there, but with all the time they spent apart, not as strong as they had once been. That was why he'd stood there and managed not to throw a fit of jealousy. 

When he and Pattie had arrived home after spending the night out, George had refused to talk to her. He had grown and gotten wiser thanks to Krishna learnings, but he wasn't t that wise, yet. He'd ignored all of his wife's attempts to get a conversation going and had spent the night in his music, sleeping on the single bed. He knew it wasn't fair but he held her at a different standard than his mate : from John he could tolerate callousness and treachery, from Pattie he could not.

George opened his eyes, giving up on meditation for the time being. He stood up, walking over to the bed and collapsing onto it, staying on his stomach and burying the side of his face against the pillow. He closed his eyes, the image of John looking quite pleased with spending the evening with his wife instead of him engrained into his memory. The real highlight of the evening had been watching John getting a dressing down from 'Shirley Temple' though, and despite the mood he was in, George couldn't help but laugh at the memory of how rightfully (albeit briefly) shamed he'd looked. 

He considered giving John a call but decided against it. If his lover wanted to talk, he'd have to reach out to George first. He stayed on the bed for an undetermined length of time, looking up when he heard the ringing of the phone, followed by Pattie softly knocking at the door, telling him that it was John. 

George gave himself a few seconds to debate whether or not to answer her and take the call. Who was he kidding though? Of course he'd talk to John. He could never stay angry with him, or in this instance resist the urge to tease him over being yelled at by Shirley Temple shaking an oversized lollipop in his face. Forgiving John was easier too, easier than giving consideration to the fact that things between them were coming to what he felt to be their inevitable conclusion. 

He answered Pattie and sat up on the bed, getting up and sauntering to the living room without looking at her, picking up the receiver. "Yeah?"