George's dark eyes blinked open and he let out a small yawn, feeling unusually warm on this cold Hamburg morning. There was a heavy arm draped over his waist and it took a moment to his sleepy brain to register that it was it belonged to John. He turned his head and was surprised by how close his mate was, the older man still in this state between sleep and consciousness, eyes moving behind his closed eyelids. John's mouth was slightly agape and his hair dishevelled, the look giving George that funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He sighed and looked away from his mate, memories from the night before flooding his mind. They'd done things that night. The kind of things that you were not supposed to do with another bloke. Shame and embarrassment settled onto George's features as he thought about how they'd kissed and humped against each other to climax. 

He slipped his hand onto John's arm lightly, debating whether he should push him away. He didn't want to wake him up and he also kind of liked the feeling of his mate against him, the press of John's chest against his back, so close he could feel the steady beating of his heart. John felt good against George, keeping him warm, and the younger lad reasoned that they'd probably never be this close again so he didn't move his arm. Instead, he stared at the dirty wall in front of him, dark eyes filled with conflicting emotions. 

John mumbled in his sleep, snuggling into the warmth of the body pressed against his, waking up a little when he felt it twitch and tense up, moving slightly against his bare skin. He knew the person he held so tightly against him was George before he even opened his eyes, his brain not even fully awake and already drunk on the smell of his mate, the smoothness of his skin, the feel of his hair against his face. George tensed up when John stirred behind him, crushing any hope to be able to slip out of bed unnoticed and avoid him all day. He held his breath, not moving a muscle, hoping John would let sleep reclaim him again. 

Sleep was on last thing on John's brain right then. He swallowed, focusing on the sensation of George's nearly bare body against his intently, as if trying to memorize it, knowing fully well that he'd never have the opportunity to get to experience it again. He felt his forehead against George's bony spine, his bare chest flush to George's back, his groin, carefully pressed to George's rump and their legs, tangled together in a warm mess. George bit into his bottom lip when John's soft cock rubbed up against his bum as he shifted around in bed, blushing, his skin rising up with goosebumps at the contact. 

Unaware of his mate's feelings, John breathed in his scent deeply before letting out a sigh, opening his eyes and going back to the ugly reality. He'd humped George to climax the night before, because he was horny and frustrated, granted, but also because he'd wanted to. If John was completely honest with himself (something he rarely dared doing), he would have to recognise that he'd wanted that for a long time. He'd wanted George, that way, for a long time. And that fucking freaked him out. 

With a little shiver of fear and uneasiness he realised that George was awake, stiff and anxious in his arms, probably extremely uncomfortable, much more than John was feeling. "I know yer awake," he stated bluntly, his voice low and gruff from sleep. "I wasn't pretending to be sleeping," George said defensively. "Think you could unwrap your arm from around me waist?" He asked, not wanting to be a git but hoping he could beat John to the punch, get nasty and despising before his mate had any chance to do it first.

A frown spread on John's features at the tone of George's voice, surprised by how harsh his mate sounded, not embarrassed, shameful and twitchy about it as John had somewhat expected him to be, but scornful and cold. He licked on his lower lip nervously, leaning away a little. The honest answer to his mate's question would've been 'no', he liked spooning behind George, as fucked up as that was, but that was not an appropriate answer and John knew it. "All right," he replied instead, trying to sound as if he did not care, rolling on his back and closing his eyes.

George felt terrible about how he'd spoken to John but he didn't apologize to the older lad. He sat up in bed, running his hands through his hair, not sure that being cold toward his mate was the best thing to do right then but unable to think about another way to deal with the situation he found himself in. John sounded fine to him, though he hadn't protested when George had asked him to remove his arm, but he didn't dare looking at him to find out whether he was truly feeling okay.

Instead George got out of bed, quickly walking over to where he'd discarded his clothing the night before and slipping on his drainpipes. "I was thinking," he said nervously, grabbing his boots and tugging them onto his feet, "of switching rooms with Paul." John's eyes blinked open at that. He'd been curling upon himself on the bed, trying to make up for the loss of George's warmth and presence against him by burying himself deeper under the covers, but his mate's words made him look up sharply.

"What?" He asked, dumbfounded, eyes narrowing at George, pretty sure he'd misunderstood him, not wanting to believe that this mean what he thought it did. "What for?"

"What for?" George parroted John's words, not in a mocking way but rather surprised that his friend seemed to be offended he could want to switch rooms with one of their band mates. "'Cause." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling put on the spot by John's simple question. Why was John asking him this? He thought his mate would be rather pleased with the suggestion but John merely snorted at the curt reply, knowing fully well why George wanted to change rooms and concealing the sensation of cold twisting in his chest and tingling his skin with a roll of his eyes. "Right." 

George turned away, grabbing his leather jacket and putting it on. "I don't want to share a room with you anymore," he lied easily, but couldn't bring himself to look at John because his poker face was terrible and he knew John would be able to see right through him. The older lad sighed heavily, sitting up with an irritated groan. "Oh come on, George. It was juss a wank, no big deal," he tried to reason, fiddling with the sheets nervously. 

George frowned, John's words sounding like an insult to him. 'Just a wank' implied that what they'd done last night had been meaningless to John, that George could've been some German bird he'd been humping away on for all his mate cared. George thought he should have felt relieved that his friend was willing to shrug it off as if it hadn't happened, but instead he felt hurt and ashamed for feeling the things he did for him. "Just a wank," he muttered underneath his breath, as cold and unaffected as possible. 

"'m not a ponce," George said shakily, trying to sound convinced. "I'm not. I don't know what you are," he said cuttingly, "but I'm not." It took John a few seconds to process what George was implying, anger mixing with the hurt he already felt, making him shiver, blood flushing hotly in his cheeks and neck. He let his vexation and rage take over easily, preferring them by far to the painful feeling of rejection he'd experienced only a few seconds earlier. "Are you calling me a poofter, 'arrison?" He asked slowly, his voice low and dangerously quiet, far too blank to be anything but murderous. 

George turned around, his face expressionless. "I didn't start it. You did," he said accusingly, swallowing hard and knowing he was pushing John's buttons. George wasn't a dummy and he knew it was best to stay away from John when he was in one of his moods, but for some reason he couldn't help himself. He was intent on hurting his mate although he didn't think he'd manage anything but to get himself punched in the face anyway. 

John's eyebrows corked up at his mate's uncharacteristically confrontational and aggressive behaviour. He'd learnt through the years that if there was anything George disliked it was direct, frontal confrontation. He'd just brood and sulk usually, and maybe try a sneaky revenge on the sly when he was really pissed, but he'd never be that harsh with people, and especially not with John. "I don't remember you struggling wildly, either," he pointed out, his voice a carefully blank drawl.

The younger lad opened his mouth to reply but he didn't have a clever retort to make a dig at John with. "Yeah, well," he paused, trying to think of anything to say as the seconds seemed to tick away at an agonizingly slow pace, "it was hard to push you away, you know. You're bigger than me and all," he finally replied, knowing that what he was implying made it seem as if John had taken advantage of his smaller frame. He knew that it was a low blow but George really wasn't too well-versed in the art of trading barbs with someone who was so good at it. With Paul, they were about evenly matched so he he got by, but with John, it was anything but easy.

John snorted, throwing his mate a look that showed he wasn't fooled. "That all you found?" He replied disdainfully, getting up and slipping his pants on as well, putting his heavy glasses on his nose, the world around him sharpening to its full ugliness. He didn't let on anything but felt rather wounded by the accusation, guilt and shame boiling in his stomach, urging him to grow nastier. "What makes you think Paul would want to room with a little git like ya anyways, uh?" He spat, his voice harsher now, slowly loosing patience.

George shrugged, growing quiet and no longer wanting to go up against John in a battle of words he couldn't possibly win. He'd seen John destroy people with a few simple words; his mate seemed to have the uncanny ability to take one look at you and seemingly zoom in on the very thing that would allow him to verbally rip you to pieces. "He's my mate," he said softly, heading for the door of their flat.

"Oh yeah?" John prompted, the glint in his eyes purely malevolent now. He combed his greasy hair back and shrugged his jacket on. "And do you think he will still be yer mate when I tell him what you little ponce let me do to you last night?" He asked mockingly, tucking a cigarette between his white lips. "I could tell him I made you moan like a whore. I could tell him you begged for it," he stated with an odd grin. "Do you think he'll still want to room wit' you after that, uh?"

George's shoulders slumped forward, making him look even smaller. "You said..." he began nervously, licking his dry lips. "You said you wasn't gonna say nothin'!" He squeaked, sounding very panicked at the thought of Paul finding out. John was obviously bluffing but George was too naive to know that and he turned around to face his mate with his pale face flushed red and his dark eyes glassy with unshed tears of frustration. He closed the distance between the two of them, grabbing hold of John's arm tightly, his eyes pleading. "You wouldn't do that," he whispered, voice shaky and uncertain. 

John smirked, pulling out of George's trembling grip roughly and watching the panic on his face with a certain sadistic delight, lips parted and nostrils flared. It was so easy to hurt, much easier than to stop and try to understand and work the situation out reasonably. It felt good to put George down as well, nearly good enough to soothe the pain his mate's rejection had provoked in his chest. 

The younger lad looked away from John's vicious glare, his vision blurry with tears, cheeks heating up and red with embarrassment. He bit down into his plump bottom lip to keep from crying. He was supposed to be tougher than this! Honestly he would've preferred John to hit him instead of what he was doing right now. George could fight with his fists, being quite the scrapper because what he lacked in size, he made up in sheer determination to prove himself, but there was nothing he could do against that.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his dirty hand. John had stopped running his mouth for the moment and he was grateful for the chance to collect himself. His scattered thoughts slowly fell into place. John was threatening him to tell Paul about what had happened last night, but why would John want to run off and tell him? They were both equally queer it. He turned to look at John, suspecting his mate wouldn't dare breathing a word of this to Paul, not unless he wanted him to think of the both of them as queers. He opened his mouth to speak but John ignored him and started up with the cutting remarks again. 

"And why not?" John prompted, his voice sickeningly sweet. "I bet Paul'd like to know. So would Ringo, he might actually be interested, uh?"George frowned at the mention of Ringo. Was it that obvious that he was rather fond of the drummer with big blue eyes, a goofy grin and an affable nature? He took a shaky breath, pushing the thought aside for a moment, knowing that if he reacted to John's innuendoes, the older lad would use it against him.

"...know that you," he began, eyes darting around nervously, not wanting to blow his chance to gain the upper hand on John. He licked his lips, making his look as hard as possible, "...started it?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. John frowned. George did have a point, although he was quite sure he'd never dare telling anyone about it. It pissed him off even more though, that the kid couldn't just shut up and beg him prettily to forget about it.

"How you were the one to climb on top of me and start humping and kissing me like some queer?" George continued, "go on, tell 'em. I'm sure they'd love to know that it only happened because you started it," he said, voice filled with venom. "Suppose we'll both look queer if that's what you was aiming for an' all." He shrugged, trying to sound cool and doing a good job of it. John's lips were reduced to a thin angry line as he literally fumed on the spot, knowing George was slowly winning that fight. Oh, but John still had a few bullets in store for the lad.

"Don't forget to tell 'em you kissed me first and all when you go off and gossip like a bird about it," George added snidely, turning away from John, a small smile gracing his once tortured features. He was convinced that he had his mate exactly where he wanted him, and that there was no way the he'd go and tell everyone after that. "I only let you do it because you seemed to want it so bad. I did what I thought you wanted," he lied just to be nasty, shrugging his shoulders and patting his pockets for his pack of ciggies to calm his nervous heart. John's breathing hitched. That hurt. Why did that hurt so much? He blinked, anger boiling into the pit of his stomach, seriously considering beating the hell out of George until he fucking shut up, now. "Careful, 'arrison," he warned, his voice a low growl. Don't go too far. Don't make me do something I'd regret.

Why couldn't he find his bloody pack of ciggies? George turned around, looking at John but not making eye contact with him. "Sides," he went on, deliberately ignoring the low warning from his mate, drunk on power and nastiness, "who'd believe I let some fat-arsed ponce like you climb on top of me and not be smothered to death!" He spat out, knowing it was a pretty low blow. George had picked up on the fact that John had a problem with his weight. He would make a crack here or there about laying off the beer and cornflakes, grabbing and patting his stomach. He'd even stick out his belly to make a joke out of it. "I suppose it's not such a bad thing though. You've got a nice pair of tits on you," He snorted, turning away from John and heading to the door. 

John's eyes were wide with disbelief. This just couldn't be happening. Anger was literally suffocating him and pain was making his head spin. He's right, you know. You're such a fat arse. He shook his head vehemently, grateful George couldn't see him. No. This wasn't supposed to go that way. George was about to leave and he knew he had to find something quick or he'd have been bested, and by far, for the first time in his life. His mind reeled as seconds seemed to stretch, making him feel nauseous and weak, trembling with rage until he found just what he was looking for.

Oh, perfect. John's lips curled up in a joyless smirk. He'd have the last laugh, no matter how far he'd have to go to get it. George was good, but still not as good as he was. "Really?" He replied belatedly to George's joke about him having tits. He hummed, a great blankness descending upon him now that he knew he was going to win. He beat George to the door, putting his hand on the doorknob. "Where are you going?" He asked insolently, his voice low and his eyes glinting manically, knowing fully well that the band was supposed to rehearse that morning. "You don't need to go to practice." He opened the door and flashed George a smug smirk, eyes dark. "You're out." He raised his eyebrows. "Of the band, that is. You can pack your things and go back to Liverpool." His lips curled up in a silent snarl. "I'll see ya around, I guess." He slammed the door behind him, tumbling down the stairs loudly and feeling light and free, gleeful with evil joy and pride, knowing Paul was going to murder him for firing George and not giving a shit right then. 

George blinked, his stomach dropping. He couldn't believe it, but John obviously meant business; the older lad's tone was serious and rather cold when giving George the boot. It seemed to be so easy for him and apparently even gave him some perverse sense of pleasure. George shook his head. He couldn't be out of the band, could he? No, they'd come too far together for him to be cast away like that. He couldn't just go back to Liverpool, George lived and breathed music. How could John take it away from him so easily? 

The young man threw the door open and slammed it shut behind him, standing at the top of the stairs, watching John take the last few steps down with a light-hearted bounce. He took off down the stairs at full speed. "John!" He called out. "Wait up!" He begged, panicked when his mate reached the bottom of the stairs. He was sure that he'd never see him again if he didn't get to him. In a hurry to reach his mate, George stumbled down the last several stairs, falling to the ground with a rather heavy thud. 

John smirked thinly when he heard George storm out of the room and call after him, sounding pleading and scared. Ha-ah. Not feeling so cocky now, hey? He had smug chuckle although a part of him did feel bad for how panicked George seemed to be. He shut it up quickly, turning around with an eyebrow raised, fully intent on making George beg and plead with him, and just in time to see his mate trip and crash on the last stairs, tumbling head first on the ground. His first impulse was to reach for George and make sure he was okay but he repressed it with a sigh, giving a mean snort instead. "Can't even stand on yer own, now?" He asked casually, frowning when George didn't get up at once. 

George groaned, slowly sitting up, seeing blood on the dusty floor beneath him. He reached up to touch his mouth, pulling back a reddened hand from his busted bottom lip, blood trickling down on his chin and dripping onto the front of his dirty white T-shirt, staining the fabric a dark red. He didn't move to stand, his vision blurry from tears and feeling rather defeated as he leaned his back against the wall, skinny legs stretched out in front of him. He waited for his mate to tease him mercilessly, but John didn't, just standing there. George wiped his tearful eyes with the back of his hand, the one that didn't have blood on it. He felt dizzy and slumped down the wall heavily, lying down down on his side. 

"George?" John called, almond eyes widening a little in worry, finally giving in and crouching next to his mate when he noticed blood on the ground. "George, you okay?" He asked, hiding his concern under a disgruntled snarl. "Yeah," George replied softly, embarrassed and not looking anywhere near John. He sat up, sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand before busying himself by checking on his bottom lip. The blood had nearly stopped flowing and began crusting over. "Am I really out?" He whispered, daring to look at John in the eyes even though he was still afraid of the answer. 

John let out a heavy sigh, avoiding George's pleading eyes, a pang of guilt hitting him full in the chest when the wide and wet glance crossed his. "You bit yer lip," he stated, his voice neutral, sitting on the ground and patting his pockets for his handkerchief. "Might need stitches." He folded his hankie when he found it, tilting George's head up with careful fingers. "Lemme see," he demanded, dabbing his kerchief against George's mouth none too gently, trying not to get distracted by how pretty and pathetic his mate looked with his mouth a bright red and his eyes a liquid black. "Nah, you'll be fine," he declared after a few seconds, dropping it. "Juss need to wash it and ma'be lay down for a while." He looked away, his face closed.

George's mouth throbbed with a dull pain that became acutely sharp and stabbing when John roughly handled his busted bottom lip. He ignored it though, far more troubled with the fact that his friend hadn't answered his question. "John," he paused, looking over at his mate and studying his profile. "I'm really out then?" He asked softly, placing his hand on John's sleeved arm. 

John sighed but did wipe the blood steadily trickling down George's face more gently, ruining his handkerchief. He looked down to his mate's hand on his sleeve and he knew, just knew, that George would do anything he'd ask at this moment, provided he didn't throw him out. Anything. He swallowed dryly and chased the thought away quickly, because when it was somewhat alright to hump your mate when you were drunk and horny, blackmailing him into performing sexual favors certainly wasn't. "Will you behave?" he asked instead, eyes dark and guarded.

George felt pretty low but he desperately wanted back in and was willing to do anything John wanted of him if it ensured he didn't have to go back to Liverpool. He leaned in and pressed his mouth against John's, clutching the older lad's arm. He pulled back when John didn't return his kiss, his cheeks flushed red with embarassment. They were sort of in public. Well, they were out of their shared room, and anyone could have walked into the back of the club. 

John's breathing hitched very noticeably when George's bloodied lips pressed against his, smearing blood upon his mouth, but he leaned away sharply, shaking his head. "That's not what I meant," he protested, his mouth dry and his eyes dark. George's lips, even wet with blood and trembling with fear felt so good against his that he couldn't quite resist, leaning in against his best judgement and kissing George again, lightly not to hurt him, sweetly really, before he stood up, his cheeks bright red. "Get back to the flat, you need to wash yer face. You're not out, stop fucking crying." He hoisted George up determinately, pulling him towards the stairs.

"I wasn't crying," George replied absent-mindedly, out of sorts from the gentle kiss John had given him. John sighed and led his injured friend up the narrow stairs, ushering him into their small room and making him sit down on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked underneath his frail body as John went to their rusty gas cooker against the dirty wall, pulling out a basin and pouring what was left of the water he'd fetched at the bathroom the night before, letting his handkerchief pool into it, watching the red of the blood ooze slowly into the grey water lapping at the chipped ceramic edges. 

"You've got my blood all over your mouth," George stated hesitantly, studying his mate's face. John looked up to the mirror on the wall and wiped it with trembling fingers. "Wonder how it got there," he replied dryly, coming back to the bed and setting the basin between them, watching George's face carefully, tilting his chin up. "I want..." George said, his voice faltering. "I want to kiss again." He felt sick over the words he said to John, but still wanted his mate's lips back on his. John's mouth curled down in a strange mixture of irritation and pain. "I said you weren't out," he snapped. "Didn't you hear? You don't have to do that." 

George nodded, looking down and feeling rather embarrassed, his cheeks flushing red all over again. "I want to, John," he said nervously, licking at his lips and tasting blood. "It was nice, wasn't it?" He looked up but was still far too embarrassed to make eye contact with his mate. He stared at his shoulder instead, focusing on the worn leather of his coat, which had seen better days. 

John sighed and dabbed George's face with his wet handkerchief, cleaning dirt and blood from his chin and mouth with very careful moves, his usually rough hands strangely caring. He didn't say anything, his mind reeling with the question and focusing on what he was doing instead, deciding George definitively wouldn't need stitches and putting the basin away. George took a shaky breath, making eye contact with John. The older lad looked a bit irritated with him but not disgusted and he felt quite relieved, yet still oddly on edge. He leaned in, pecking John's mouth softly. "I want to," he repeated in a whisper, staring into John's eyes.

"George," John said, sounding uncharacteristically unsure, his voice a little shaky and even defeated, his wet hands coming to rest on his mate's shoulders, stroking up and holding him by the scruff of his neck, as if afraid he would bolt up at any moment. He looked into his friend's soulful eyes. He could have brought up the fact that George had called him queer and fat and disgusting, he could have ruined the boy and put him down like he'd never managed to, could have won this battle once and for all. But he didn't want that. John wanted to kiss George again and who was he kidding anyway. "Okay," he croaked, leaning in and pressing his lips to George's rather carefully.

Part two of this chapter was taken down by wattpad. You can read it on LJ: http://those-years-ago.livejournal.com/2281.html