George was miserable. He'd been feeling under the weather since they'd boarded onto the plane for their first American tour, but he'd first chalked it up to nerves. This trip had a lot riding on it, no band from across the pond having ever managed to match the success they had in the UK in the States. 

When they'd touched down at JFK airport it had been total pandemonium, thousands of fans having come to see the Beatles. George had put on his best face, waved to the fans and smiled, slipping on his playful Beatle demeanour even though he was progressively feeling worse. 

They were ushered into a room in the airport straight off the plane, where dozens of reporters were waiting for them, rather overwhelming to George. He was used to the press but they'd never dealt with it on such a large scale and he found himself going through the motions, being clever and charming, but praying they'd get through this press conference soon. 

They were eventually taken to their fancy hotel where more fans were screaming their heads off and crying at the sight of the them, and then rather briskly shoved into their suites. George quickly made his way to his room, throwing up the little food and champagne he'd had on the plane before crawling into bed. Brian came to check on him pretty soon to see if he was up for being taken around the city with the others for photo ops and interviews. When it became clear that George wasn't, he sent for a doctor who gave him a shot that would hopefully break his fever before their Ed Sullivan rehearsal and first appearance. George had to stay in bed until then. 

Thankfully Ringo had managed to get him a record player to keep him company while they were out. He'd also gotten him a bowl of chicken soup from room service. George doubted he could keep anything down but he'd sipped the broth anyway, rather grateful and touched by Ringo's concern. Paul had popped in as well, stressing that these Ed Sullivan appearances were important before showing himself out. John hadn't come at all. George figured he was busy with Cynthia; she had come along for the trip, much to George's dismay. He reasoned that his mate would want to spend time with his wife though, having seen so little of her since things had really started for the band. 

George drifted off into a fitful sleep, hearing some commotion coming from the living room of the suite but not bothering to drag himself out of bed and find out what was going on. There was a soft knock at the door and Ringo slipped inside, still wearing his heavy coat. 

"George," he said softly, taking off his coat and placing it onto a nearby chair. "You feeling all right?" He walked over to him and stared down at his friend. George nodded, smiling. "Oh yes, like a million bucks, mate," he said and slowly tried to sit up, making a face in discomfort. 

"Don't sit up on my account," Ringo said, concerned. 

"It's all right," George sighed, propping a pillow behind his back. "I'll have to be on my feet in a few hours for rehearsal, anyway." 

Ringo sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, facing George. He reached out, touching his mate's forehead. "You're hot." 

George chuckled, closing his eyes. "Thanks." 

Ringo grinned. "Sure you're sick or you just trying to skip out on all those photo shoots and interviews Brian has scheduled for us?" he asked jokingly, continuing to feel George's forehead. "You're burning up." 

"I'm freezing, though." George opened his eyes and stared into Ringo's. "Probably shouldn't get too close to me. I wouldn't want you to catch it." 

There was a snort coming from the corridor, making them both look up. John was leaning against the door frame with carefully studied disinterest, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit and cigarette dangling from his rosy lips. His hair was still ruffled from the madness he'd gone through, crazed fans and questioning journalists, security agents pulling on their hair 'accidentally' to try to get a few souvenirs, and obnoxious local celebrities looking down on the newcomers fresh from Great Britain's Mersey beat. "Aren't you cute, now..." he drawled slowly, something dark flashing in his eyes before it disappeared as he forced a grin out. 

"Something like that," Ringo chuckled at the derisive comment, his easy-going nature giving him the ability to let mockery roll off his back as if it were nothing. "Coming to check on my sick band mate," John explained uselessly, sounding constrainedly cheerful, jerking himself away from the door frame and padding into the room, smelling cough medicine and the gritty tang of sweat. 

The drummer slipped his hand away from George's warm forehead. "I think he'll live. Maybe. He's pretty bad," he stated, looking concerned. "I don't know if he'll make it for the Ed Sullivan show." John just puffed on his cigarette, shrugging. "Has to. Paul's going to shit himself if he doesn't," he drawled, raising an eyebrow at his mate, watching him repress a chuckle. 

"I should check on him as well," Ringo proposed and John nodded slowly. "You do that, he's driving me nuts. I'll have sick George instead. Least I can conk him over the head and pretend he passed out," John said with a smirk, watching Ringo leave and standing next to the bed, looking at his friend down his nose, eyes glazed with the strain of the day, slightly manic. "You all right, then?" he asked, gruffly. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," George replied distractedly, watching Ringo slip out of the room, closing the door behind him. He wanted the drummer to stick around. He'd proven to be great company, quite the caretaker in fact, and it had reminded him of that one night they had shared back in Hamburg. They'd both been pissed out of their minds but Ringo had been rather gentle and thoughtful. George didn't feel anything for him though, and he doubted Ringo felt that way either. Maybe that was why they were able to maintain such a close and easy-going friendship, unlike what was happening with John. 

George met his mate's eyes. "I'm all right," he repeated, forgetting that he'd already answered John's question. "I had a bowl of chicken soup and records to keep me company. Ringo's a regular Florence Nightingale," he said jokingly. "How're you feeling?" he asked, eyes curious, genuinely interested. They hadn't talked much since they'd stepped off the plane and George couldn't even remember the last time John and he had been alone. 

John snorted a little but didn't comment on the fact that he had answered his question twice, his mate's eyes having a far-away, glazed look that was both somewhat enticing and rather worrying to him. "Mn," he hummed, tucking a fresh cigarette between his thin lips, the other one having smoked itself to death while he wasn't paying attention. "Not sure," he stated, sitting on the edge of the bed a little too carefully, offering the pack to George and lighting his ciggie. "They've gone potty out there." He poked George's ribs, mindful not to burn him. "You're bloody lucky to have the flu. 'xcept they sorta think you're snobbish now, feeling that yer too good for their stupid interviews..." John grinned, watching George with playful eyes. "Way to go, Georgie." 

George waved off the pack of cigarettes, chuckling when John poked him in the ribs. He briefly looked at the curtain covered window. "I can hear them," he remarked, somewhat amazed, figuring the fans must've been quite loud to be heard this far up. He smiled, not feeling so lucky but more as if he was letting down the band: these Ed Sullivan appearances were essential to their success and he'd managed to come down with the flu. 

"Snobbish?" George laughed, dark eyes widening with amusement. "I'm sure you set them straight, right?" He chuckled, playfully narrowing his eyes at his mate, knowing that he hadn't. John took his best deer-in-the-headlights face, scratching his brow. "Ah, erm, well..." He coughed. "Sure did. Not one to laugh at the expense of an absent friend, mn?" He smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Or am I?" he drawled, chuckling. 

The noise outside grew louder, making them both look up. "I bet you Paul is waving to the fans," George stated and he closed his eyes, feeling a bit queasy for several seconds, reaching out and grabbing John's sleeve. John's eyebrows raised but he allowed it, tilting his head to the side. "I told 'im not to do that..." he grumbled, eyes concerned. "You okay?" George nodded, opening his eyes. The feeling had passed but he kept his hand on John's arm, instinctively looking for his touch. "It's crazy, isn't it?" he asked, slipping his thumb underneath the sleeve of John's blazer, moving it back and forth over his wrist slowly, making John's skin tingle. He felt his stomach turn at the simple yet intimate gesture. "Two years ago we were sharing a bed in Hamburg and now look at us," George said, softly. 

John smiled, sighing and slouching a little more on the bed, some of the tension in his shoulders relaxing unconsciously under George's gentle touch and his kind, tired eyes. "Yeah, look at us..." He stated somewhat dreamily before grinning wide, patting George's hand. "We've gone from sharing a bed in Hamburg to holding hands in New York. Quite the achievement, son." 

George slipped his thumb from underneath the cuff of John's blazer and covered the older man's hand with his own instead, gripping it firmly. "Now we're holding hands," he grinned broadly. "The toppermost of the poppermost," he stated absent-mindedly, looking into John's hazel eyes and feeling a comforting warmness spread throughout his slender frame. John chuckled, not minding the display of affection since it was just the two of them and George didn't seem to mean anything queer by it. "Right there, Georgie," he agreed, grinning and resisting the urge to pat his mate's cheek. 

George slipped his hand away from his mate's. "Now, what?" he asked, looking toward the curtain and then back to John. "How is Cyn handling all of this? Is she still shaken up for almost getting swallowed up in that crowd outside the hotel?" he asked, concerned. George didn't hold any ill will toward Cynthia for being with John, but the older lad tensed up at the mention of his wife, straightening on the bed. "A little, I suppose. She's not as used to it as we are," he replied somewhat briskly, not liking the subject. John knew the situation was difficult for Cynthia and he cared, sort of, but that was definitively not something he wanted to discuss with George of all people. He stood up, taking another puff from his cigarette and pulling the blanket higher on his friend's chest mechanically. 

George hadn't meant to upset John, he'd just been trying to make conversation but he now realized that it had been a mistake. John was sort of 'funny' about discussing his wife with him. He was clueless to the obvious reasons why though, he hadn't given any thought to the fact that their intimate history might have made it awkward for John to tell him about Cynthia. 

"You'll be okay, need anything?" John asked, raising an eyebrow and smoothing George's matted hair back from his damp forehead, surprised by how hot he felt. George shook his head, closing his eyes and enjoying the press of his mate's hand against his forehead. George liked John best when his friend was gentle with him. "Mn," John mumbled, padding to the small bathroom adjoining George's room and putting the washing cloth under cold water. He brought it back to George and set it on his mate's burning forehead, raising an eyebrow. "That better?" 

"Yeah. Ta." George opened his eyes and managed a weak smile, feeling tired. He patted John's hand. "I didn't mean to get sick," he said apologetically, still considering his mate to be the leader of the band and hating to disappoint him. "It's all right Georgie," John said quietly, watching his friend's shaky smile and the glazed way with which his exhausted eyes shone. "We'll manage. Sullivan can wait, what matters is you getting better." He gave his damp hand a squeeze. "It'll be fine, get some kip, all right?" I got your back, this time. He squeezed George's hand once more, eyes soft for once, giving his friend a comforting smile before he showed himself out, closing the door behind him quietly. 

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John let out a heavy sigh, rather excited about finally getting to be in a movie, something he'd had an eye on since the band had really started being famous, but not letting on, trying to look cool and aloof like always. He knew he was no actor but this was just about being "himself" for groupies so he figured it would be all right. He liked this Lester guy as well, he seemed rather creative and a little mad, running around the set to fix everything. A tad too ambitious and controlling to John's liking, though. From what he'd gathered, Lester's main motivation to make this movie was that it would probably make him famous. John couldn't blame him, everything the band touched seemed to turn to gold these days and he'd seen many people try to take advantage of that fact already. 

He sighed again, wishing he could have sat down and slouched somewhere, but having to stand with his mates next to the train, watching the set director fuss over the placement of chairs with their names plastered onto the back. They were to take a series of promotional photos with the birds hired to play the schoolgirls in these scenes. George could hear their giggling and excited chatter before he saw them being ushered to wardrobe and make-up he presumed, the lithe blonde immediately catching his eye. He perked up at the sight of her, grinning broadly and turning to look at John. "Did you get a look at her?" He elbowed his mate in the side. "The blonde." He looked in the direction the birds had passed through, futilely hoping to catch another glimpse of her. 

John hummed and shook his head, not having really paid attention to the girls and not wearing his glasses anyway. He was close enough to see the interest on George's face as he leaned to catch a better glimpse of the birds though, and the glint in his mate's eyes made him frown, stomach knotting oddly. "I think I'm really going to enjoy making this movie," Paul grinned, resting his arm on George's shoulder. "That blonde is a cute little thing," he stated lecherously, licking his plump lips. 

George looked over at Paul, very much wanting to remind him of a red-headed actress by the name of Jane that he happened to be dating, not because he thought his mate's unfaithfulness was wrong -he was in no position to judge anyone on that mater- but because he knew that blondes were Paul's type and George hoped he could get to that one bird before his mate. "What?" Paul grinned, apparently catching up on the death glare George was sending him. 

"I think our little Georgie is jealous," John drawled, grinning wide although his eyes were hard and cold, having to grind his teeth not to say anything that would have made him too obvious. Paul raised an annoyingly perfect eyebrow playfully, pursing his lips. "Getting a little crush George, aren't we? Well, finders keepers, make your move before it's too late," he joked, missing the way John looked away, harshly disinteresting himself from the conversation. That was all right. George slept with birds as he ought to, there was no need to feel that way. He could usually cope with it quite well but something in George's eyes as he'd looked at the blond, that little glint, had reminded him of how George looked at him at times, with wonder and arousal and that, John could not cope with. 

"She's a cute bird, George, you should ask her out," Ringo spoke up, smiling."At least before this one here," he motioned to Paul, "moves in on her before you," he said, patting Paul on the back good-naturedly. 

-------------- 

"Yeah, yeah," John muttered, making his way through the train followed by an over-enthusiastic George banging on and on about his new, or soon to be, girlfriend, that girl he'd met only a few hours before on the set. This had been going on for a while already, pretty much since George had come back from talking with her, eyes bright and grinning wide, looking happier than John had ever seen him and making it rather hard for the other lad not to put him down harshly. He'd refrained so far, knowing he had no good reason to want to break George's little spell over Pattie, mostly sitting there and watching him blubber about her with Paul, fuming but silent. 

Once he thought he couldn't take much more without snapping and yelling something he would regret about queers and blond air-heads, he'd excused himself briskly, pretending he had a headache and wanted to get a little peace and quiet in their privet compartment of the train before they had to shoot the next sequence of the movie. It was on the other side of the train but John didn't mind, as long as it kept him alone and most of all, away from George and the uncomfortable feelings his mate caused in the pit of his stomach. Paul and Ringo had been wise enough to notice by the dark look in his eyes that he was best left alone but George, all absorbed in his fantasies, hadn't been quite as perceptive, getting up and stating that he needed to go to their compartment as well because he wanted to comb his hair and change his tie, this one having a stain on it. 

"She's really something, isn't she?" George was asking. John wasn't particularly interested in replying to that (at least not with anything his mate would have judged appropriate to describe his new sweetheart) and George didn't give him the opportunity to do so anyway. "She sort of looks like Bardot, right?" he stated dreamily; another rhetorical question. George had practically been having a conversation with himself since they'd left their mates but he hadn't seemed to notice, far too enamoured with that blonde by the name of Pattie Boyd to notice that John was was mostly unresponsive to his inquiries. 

They finally reached the small train car at the far end of the train that was reserved to them, away from the press, making John sigh heavily. It should have been a moment for peace and quiet, a respite from the chaos that surrounded them, but George's excited chatter was filling the small space incessantly. "She's a model, you know. She does print ads and things." John rolled his eyes, angrily puffing on his cigarette. "You don't say," he drawled. "Yeah", George smiled, a pensive expression on his face. "I asked her to marry me," he grinned, making John look up in surprise, eyes startled before they grew frankly murderous. 

The Beatles often did that with birds, asking them for their hand in marriage, but it was always in a rather playful manner. The look on George's face made it clear that the question had been asked in all seriousness, though. He was quite smitten with the blonde and doubted he'd meet another girl as lovely as Pattie, not having felt this strongly about anyone since his thing with John had ended two years ago. "She didn't say yes, but she didn't say no either." 

"Great," John drawled, eyes narrowing in fury. He'd never honestly considered the thought of George getting married or even worse, falling in love. In his mind, he had always been his and his only, and the realisation that he wasn't anymore was both shocking and terrifying to him, jealousy making the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickle and his stomach lurch violently, body heating up. 

George finally quieted down, pausing and getting a good at looking John, really watching him for the first time since they had stepped inside of the train car. "You all right?" he asked, concerned, leaning forward and resting his hand on John's arm, patting him lightly, still too dazed to recoil at the look in his mate's eyes. John leaned away, getting up sharply, not wanting George anywhere close to him. His desire for the man was already flaring in his chest, mixing with aggressiveness and longing to possess him, there was no need to make it worse. "Yeah, sure," he snapped. "'m peachy." 

George snorted, knowing it would be stupid to try and get John to talk if he didn't want to. He loosened his tea-stained tie and stood up. "Alright then," he stated to himself, grabbing Ringo's small bag from overhead, looking for the spare black tie the drummer had allowed him to borrow. He dug through the bag, a relieved grin spreading across his face when he found the tie at the bottom. He took his tie off and tossed it onto the chair, wanting to look his best for Pattie. He didn't think a stained tie would help his cause to win her over and so he put on the drummer's tie on instead, staring at his reflection in the window. 

He tied and untied it several times, fussing with it, not pleased with how it looked. "Could you help me with this?" George finally asked, annoyed, turning toward his mate and loosening his tie again. John looked up from where he'd been standing, stubbornly watching his crushed ciggie smoke in the ashtray, eyes narrowing in contempt. He was not so sure that getting this close to George was a good idea but had no good reason to refuse, they'd helped each other with that sort of stuff often enough. 

He sighed heavily, stomping towards his mate and stopping in front of him, grabbing the tie bluntly, eyes flashing dark, almost looking as if he was going to strangle George with it. "Pulling all out for Pattie?" he spat. "That's rather pathetic, George. Bird like this, she'll never give you so much as a second glance." He paused and sneered. "But you know that, don't you?" he stated, sounding cloyingly sweet. He grabbed the lapels of George's jacket unconsciously, fingers white on the fancy fabric, eyes dark and almost magnetically locking with George's. 

George's smile faded from his face, soon to be replaced with a look of anger. "Sod off!" He snapped, glaring into John's eyes. George knew that Pattie was interested in him, and he couldn't figure out why his mate felt the need to be a prick about it. 

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks. 

John was jealous, wasn't he? Not of him, but of Pattie. He swallowed hard, feeling arousal beginning to build in the pit of his stomach like a slow, burning fire. "Let go," he said, his voice low and threatening, grabbing John's hands but not removing them. "I have. So who's the pathetic one here, mate?" he asked spitefully. 

John's eyes were very dark by then, lips parted in fury and desire. George's touch sent a shock through his system, his words making him flush once he understood what he was implying, stomach turning in rage, grip tightening on his mate's jacket. "What makes you think..." he growled, seething, shoving George backwards violently, pinning him to the wall. He gasped as their chests collided, George's smell, cologne, sweat and cigarette making his nostrils flare. "You fucking..." he whispered, eyes unfocused and burning oddly, far too close from George for his own sanity, "useless, arrogant piece of..." He lips thinned into a snarl and he grabbed George's face as if to hit him, blunt nails scraping his skin as his fingers tightened their grip, bringing their mouths together harshly, his body slamming against George's, pressing him to the wall. 

George groaned against John's mouth, trembling hands grabbing the lapels of his mate's jacket and bringing him closer. After two years of pent up desire they were kissing again and it felt incredibly hot, so hot that it took him several seconds to remember where he was, and that he had Pattie waiting for him. He pushed John off of him roughly, making him stumble backwards with a curse. 

"What are you doing?" George asked, panicked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. John glared at him, his cheeks flushed and his breathing uneven. "Anyone could see!" George added in a hiss, quickly moving around the small train car, drawing the blinds and shutting the room from the outer world, leaving it somewhat dark. John watched him fidget with a snort. "You know what I'm doing," he stated, his voice low. He raised an eyebrow. "And you want me to," he added, sounding too quiet not to be dangerous, gesturing towards the now veiled windows. Why would George draw the blinds if he didn't want any of this? 

George glared back at him. He felt that his mate was playing a game with him, figuring that he had gotten a bit jealous and decided to wreck things for him. It reminded him of Hamburg, and of all the times John had sabotaged him by swooping in when he was chatting up a bird, stealing her right from under his nose or insulting the girl to the point she'd storm off in a huff. 

He thought Pattie was his chance at being normal. He could see himself marry her, settle down and have kids with her. That's all he wanted out of life, you know, something normal in this craziness that seemed to surround them at all times lately. John had that with Cynthia and he'd broken things off with him, and now he wanted George again all of a sudden? The younger lad thought that it was pretty low of his mate to try to ruin his chances with Pattie by going off and kissing him just to confuse him. 

John sighed heavily at the look on George's face, his body flushed with desire, heart pounding in his temples and mouth dry, unable to wait ant longer. This had to come to an end, whatever it might be, the tension in his body becoming too unbearable not to unfold either with him getting off or kicking the shit out of George. He stomped towards his mate, cornering him against the door of the compartment, standing close but not touching him. "Make up yer fucking mind," he drawled lowly, eyes black. "You wanna hit me?" he proposed, face blank. "Go on." 

"You fucking smug prat," George said through gritted teeth, grabbing the lapels of his blazer, drawing his infuriating mate closer. He wanted to smash John's face in but he couldn't bring himself to do it. John just gave him a smirk, his lips stretching up, painfully striving to keep his mask on. George sighed in anger but pressed his mouth to his, feeling that he'd live to regret what they were doing but wanting it too much to stop. 

John let out a low moan when he understood he was agreeing, willing to lethim, hands cupping his face roughly, gripping a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer, pinning him to the door with all his weight. His breathing hitched at the feeling, faltering for a second as he took in the warmth of George's hard and lean body against his, pressing him harder to the wooden panel. His mouth parted in their harsh kiss, lewdly licking at George's lower lip before shoving his tongue into his mate's mouth, hands touching, grabbing George everywhere he could, probably being too rough but unable to resist the urge to get more, always more. George returned John's passionate kisses, tightening his grip on the lapels of his mate's blazer. He didn't shy away from his rough and demanding touch, welcoming it instead, pressing himself to him. 

John had never felt this kind of desire for anyone, man or woman, not with Cyn and certainly not with poor Brian. He'd never felt that heated, that desperate to possess and consume someone and somewhere in his clouded brain the thought worried him, but it was too late to turn away, now. His cock was hard before he knew it, straining into his pants and making him buck, pressing his hips to George's and grinding against him feverishly, groaning into his mouth. 

George gasped in shock when he felt the press of John's hard-on against his own. It had been far too long since he'd felt this kind of passion. He only felt this way with John, try as he might to re-create it with groupies. They were willing to do anything to please him but it still wasn't enough, something was always missing. He let go of John's blazer and wrapped his arms around his mate's waist, hungrily kissing him. 

John would have grinned smugly at the reactions George displayed if he hadn't been so heated himself. They'd barely even began and he was already sweaty and flushed, his cock straining for release in his pants, burning as he rubbed it against George's hard-on. He'd wanted to do that for so long. He'd dreamt about this, wanked to this, shamefully day-dreamed about this for months, fuck maybe years now, and all that pent up desire was piling up on him, folding him into pleasure. 

He kissed George harshly, grabbing one of his legs and wrapping it around his waist, pinning his mate to the door loudly (too loudly) and grinding against him hard and quick, eyes rolling back in pleasure, body twitching with white-hot tension. 

George groaned but he didn't protest, liking the feeling of being possessed by his mate's forceful moves. He'd never admit it to John but he rather thought it didn't need to be said, it was quite obvious to him. George was feeling bold and quite heated, slipping his hands underneath the waistband of John's trousers and grabbing the older lad's bum through the thin material of his underwear, holding him close, making him moan and twitch. He pulled out of their heated kiss and pressed his face against the side of John's neck, nipping and kissing on the warm skin, mindful not to suck and leave a mark behind for make-up to cover. 

John growled low in his throat, breath coming out in erratic gasps, pulling on George's hair and gripping his thigh, keeping his mate's leg wrapped around his moving hips. This was good, way too good, the feeling of George's arousal against his, hot and damp even through their trousers, mixing with the sensation of George's tenacious mouth on his neck, burning lips caressing him, a glint of teeth against his skin making him shudder. There were being too loud though and John knew it, he could hear noise and rustling in the adjoining train car, praying that no-one would try to enter and catch them red handed, entangled into forbidden bliss. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to draw this out, on and on, pleasure running thick through his veins, making him tingle with the excruciating feeling of George's body against his, bloody too much and fucking not enough at the same time. They were running out of time tough and John had to make sure this would come to a satisfying end soon. He grabbed a handful of George's hair, pulling his head away and looking right into his darkened eyes, face serious, lips parted in pleasure. "C'mon George," he breathed out, rubbing harder against his friend, the moves of his hips jerky and rough. He reached for George's chest, groping for a sensitive nipple, giving it a coaxing tweak. "Come on," he hissed, feeling his own climax threatening to crash upon him at any moment. 

George buried his flushed and sweaty face against his mate's neck, not thinking that he would last much longer, feeling himself growing weak in the knees. This had been two years in the making and George's desire was just too strong to be denied any longer. He gripped John's bum tightly and tensed up against his mate, pressing his face harder against John's neck, muffling his groans of pleasure against the warm and slightly damp skin. "Fuck," he whispered shakily. George jerked roughly against John, riding out his powerful orgasm as an intense and satisfying wave of pleasure washed over him and left his entire body tingling. He held John close, continuing to rub himself against his mate's hard-on. "Your turn," he mumbled against John's neck, licking at the skin, tasting salt on John's skin. 

John just whimpered against George's shoulder, the noise low and needy, his mate's orgasm sending shocks through his system as he felt him pant and rub lewdly against him, breath moist against his sensitive neck. He growled, gripping George's hips harder, shivering at the feeling of his mate's hands on him bum and moving to grab George's bony rump in reply, fondling the lean muscles. He gasped, letting his fingers trail down the crack of George's butt, dark eyes opening vaguely. He pictured himself shagging George, thrusting into that tight heat he remembered so well, and bucked one last time against his friend, coming with a shudder, groaning into the material of George's jacket. 

George slipped his hands out of the back of John's trousers and pressed them against the older lad's chest, pushing him back. He looked down at the front of his slacks, breathing a sigh of relief when he didn't spot any suspicious stains on the grey trousers. He avoided eye contact with John, smoothing down his hair and straightening out the front of his suit. John let him, trying to recover from his rampant climax, panting and wiping his forehead, smoothing down his hair as well, straightening his messed up tie. He didn't try to meet George's eyes either, the afterglow quickly receding to leave place to a curious feeling of resignation. 

"I should get back," George said after a while, sounding shaky, staring at the older lad's shoulder. "Pattie's waiting for me." He looked up, seeking out John's eyes. What they'd done just now didn't change anything to George, he still wanted to pursue a relationship with the doe-eyed blonde. John glanced at him and let out a chuckle, reaching out to pat George's cheek. "Well, all right." He patted his pockets and found his pack of cigarettes, tucking one between his lips and lighting it, the small flame making his dark eyes glint for a second before it was gone. "You do that," he stated, lips curling into a smirk. Go and flirt with Pattie, George. His eyes narrowed. It doesn't matter and you know why? Because now I know you're mine. 

George felt oddly as if he'd been used by the older lad and wanted to wipe that smug look off of John's face., wanted to tell the arrogant prat to sod off, but the hurt far outweighed any anger he felt, leaving him powerless and disgusted with himself for giving into his unnatural desires. "I'll do that," he replied blankly, showing himself out. 

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

"Oh, fuck off John," Paul replied, annoyed, as they got into the car. They'd went down the train at a small station in the Northern suburbs, taking the fans and the press by surprise and managing to avoid the screaming masses this time, at least for part of the drive back to their hotel in London. George got in the car last, busy saying good bye and seen you soon to Pattie, sitting next to Ringo. The drummer gave him a faint smile and then looked at John and Paul, rolling his eyes. 

They'd nearly been arguing non-stop since John had come back from his break, apparently with less of a headache but more of a compulsion to be an absolute prat and to push Paul's buttons until the other lad was flushed with irritation and snappy with everyone. "Telling me to fuck off doesn't make it any less of a point. It's crap, Paul. Nothing good. Even worse than the little ditties you used to composed when we first met," John stated coolly, although his eyes were burning with an odd determination. "Sappy, shitty musak juss good to entertain grannies, that's what it is." Paul's eyes were very dark at this point. 

"Fine," he fumed. "We won't use it, then. So you have something so much better to propose, I suppose?" he hissed. John grinned, knowing it wouldn't take much more, now. "Why, of course," he replied smugly. "Don't I always?" Paul tucked a cigarette between him plump lips, obviously trying to keep his calm. "Yeah," he managed, waving to a few girls standing there and looking at them through the window, boyishly. "Fuck Paul, you stupid or what?" John groaned in annoyance, pulling him back harshly. 

"I know this sort of stuff is good fer yer ego an' all, but could your refrain from being an attention-seeking prat for a second?" Paul looked up into John's eyes and the older man just raised his eyebrows. "So..." Paul said, his voice very low. "To sum-up, this afternoon, I've been a ridiculously camp flirt, a fucking laughable actor, a susceptible prat, a shitty composer and now an attention whore?" he spat, tone rising as the list went on, nearly shouting in John's face on the last syllables. "So why do you bother with me at all, uh? Pray tell?" 

John grinned to himself but just shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "Christ, don't be so bloody touchy, McCartney." He looked straight forward, feeling Paul gasp in anger next to him and wondering whether he was about to get strangled on the spot. Paul didn't do anything, though. He just sat back in his seat and brooded in silence, glaring through the window, waving to fans sharply whenever some recognised them. The rest of the drive went on in a painfully tense silence, John seemingly the only laid-back one, puffing on a ciggie leisurely. 

After a chaotic struggle to get back into their hotel they were led to the lobby, grooms carrying their bags obligingly, handing them their keys. "Mr Lennon and McCartney in room 511 and Mr Harrison and Starr in the 512," the uniformed man stated. Paul shook his head. "'m not rooming wit' him," he hissed, nodding towards John with his chin. He turned to look at Ringo. "D'you mind?" The drummer's blue eyes widened but he shook his head. "It's fine, you can room with me." Paul nodded and snatched the key from the hotel boy's hand, stomping towards their room. John just widened his eyes innocently at the puzzled look Ringo send him, accepting the keys and padding to the room he was now to share with George, whistling.