October 1962

Connie really didn't want to go back to London.

That thought had been bothering her all week. She'd spent nearly everyday of her week at home hanging around with her friends the way she had done before moving down south, and even though she had a great time with them her mind was constantly stuck on the thought of how her days with them were numbered. The thought had made her panic, making her want to squeeze in as much as possible in her visit, see as many people and go to as many places as she could. It wasn't like how it was when she was a teenager any more, where she could just take her time around town, instead it felt as if she was rushing to cram in as much nostalgia as she could, because she was only in Liverpool for the week and had no idea when she'd be able to return. It felt as though she was revisiting her past in a hurry to remind herself of everything that she'd missed, reliving all the happy memories of her youth so that she didn't feel so down once she was back in London.

If anything, trying to see everyone and everything just made it seem so much harder to consider going back. She liked her life in London, or at least she thought she did until she came home. She was living her dream, working as a writer in the capital city, but she never realised just how down she felt there until she returned to Liverpool and realised that it had been so long since she laughed so much her entire face hurt. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to feel so full of joy just because of an evening spent with friends, and it was a jarring reality check of just how lonely she actually was in London. Every night she'd been home that hadn't been spent watching the Beatles at the Cavern had been with friends in her living room, and she had realised that other than the disasterous date she'd had with Henry, she'd never had a friend over to her flat in London. In truth, she didn't have a friend she'd actually want to have over there, the only people who's company she enjoyed that much all being stuck up North.

Two nights before she was meant to get the train back down south, Connie laid awake in bed reading old books that once belonged to her mother, trying so desperately to take her mind off the worry of going back, knowing now that she would never be as happy there as she was in Liverpool. She loved the city itself, but she couldn't help but wonder if she would feel the same way if everyone she loved was also down in London, if the boys lived just round the corner, if she could go and see George any time she wanted like she did as a teenager. Connie refused to dwell on that too much, the thought being painful, knowing that she could not uproot the boys to London just because she felt lonely.

Life in Liverpool would go on without her, as it had done for the last two years. Connie had moved to London to make her own way in the world, to set off on her journey of achieving her dreams of becoming a celebrated, published writer, and so it was really her own fault that she felt such a strong fear of missing out. The thought that she would be so far away in the south with everyone she cared about at home, living their own lives, having fun and laughing without her, caused a physical stabbing pain of anxiety in her stomach, and Connie had to fight back tears all night until she eventually gave in, crying herself to sleep.

It didn't help that the very next morning she came downstairs to see the boys sat about in her living room. George, John and Paul were all sat on the sofa, tuning their guitars, whilst Ringo was tapping his drumsticks gently against the side of the fireplace. As she entered the room all of them turned to face her and Connie was instantly self-conscious of the red bags under her eyes from crying and so she pulled her cardigan around her tighter, fiddling with her hair to distract them from noticing. She'd always hated crying in front of people, the only person she ever felt comfortable crying around being John because he'd seen her at her worst, but still she hated to think they knew about her internal conflict. They'd all opposed to her moving in the first place out of their selfish desire to keep her in Liverpool where they thought she belonged, and she didn't want them to know that they'd all actually been right.

"What are you swines doing here?" She greeted, faking annoyance, trying to hide the fact her heart was aching because soon she would be parting from them again.

"Paul's dad let fans into his house again so we thought we'd come practice here for a bit," Ringo explained, stopping his drumming quickly as if he thought she'd be annoyed at him for it.

"Plus you're abandoning us all again soon so we thought we'd remind you of everything you're leaving behind," John grinned at her, almost meanly.

Either he was just joking, not knowing how upset she was over the whole thing, or he knew the full effect his words would have, knowing his cousin far too well and wanting to spite her. Connie wasn't sure which was true, but she was betting on the latter. John had a turbulent childhood, one of the only constants in his family unit being Connie, and when she moved to London he took it personally. She thought he'd gotten over it but clearly not, wanting to inflict a similar sort of pain onto her that he felt over her absence.

Connie glared over to John, and the room would have become tense if he hadn't have noticed her sad, bloodshot eyes. She looked at him warningly, as if insisting for him not to say anything else and he quickly looked back down to his guitar with an apologetic look in his eye. He knew how she was feeling, and he knew better than to mention it anymore. This silent communication went unnoticed by the others, until George looked over to her again, his concern for her overruling any other doubts about the situation.

"You alright, Con?" He asked, a frown crossing is face that made Connie quickly flash him a grin, though he could tell it was forced.

"Yeah, 'course, just don't like being surprised by pests so early in the morning," she replied, leaning over to Paul, ruffling his mop-top hair messily.

Connie put up a good façade, but it was one they could all see through, though none of them dared question her at that point, not even George, who's concern for her made his stomach tighten.

***

For her last night in Liverpool Connie just wanted to hide alone in her house and pack, exhausted by a busy week and the all-consuming anxiety of returning to London, but Paul refused to even consider that idea. To him, she was home for one more night and he wanted to make the most of it, since he thought of Connie as the sister he never had and hated being so far away from her. He insisted that she spend the evening round at his, telling her that it would be just a quiet night in at his where they could have a few drinks and listen to records, but that had been a white lie, one that became clear the moment she walked into Paul's house and all of her friends jumped out at her, Paul screaming at her that it was a surprise party.

Paul wasn't so good at keeping secrets from Connie, not since they lived next door and she'd seen everyone sneaking into his house past the crowd of fan girls camping out outside their houses, but still, she appreciated the thought and so didn't bare to tell him the truth. Instead, she grinned and laughed and pretended to be shocked to see everyone, and for a while it was fun, until she realised how much she had missed everyone before her visit home, and just how much she was going to miss them all once she had gone back down south. The aching pain she'd felt the night before seemed so much more intense as she attempted to act normal, but after a while she couldn't handle it anymore. Overwhelmed, she decided to silently slip away, back next door to the sanctuary of her own home, unnoticed in her departure.

Except she hadn't gone unnoticed, because George had been watching her from across the room the entire time she'd been at Paul's. He'd been far too caught up in his own emotions regarding her impending departure to bring himself to go over and talk to her, but even as he'd been caught up talking to Ringo, he saw Connie head out through the back door subtly. It wasn't like her at all, because whilst she was never arrogant or an attention-seeker, she used to enjoy being in the presence of her mates, revelling in the feeling of people laughing with her and joking around. She used to be the life and soul of every party, but from the moment she'd walked through Paul's back door, George had seen straight through the wall she built up, spotting the hollow, pained look in her eye that she was trying so hard to hide. He knew better than to ask her how she was feeling in front of everyone, knowing she hated dealing with her emotions, but as soon as he saw her leave, he decided he needed to check on her.

Maybe his sudden confidence in going to find Connie had come from the fact that he'd been drinking for a while with his other bandmates, not usually trusting his emotions to confront Connie on something that he knew she struggled with so much. That didn't matter this time though as he wandered out to Paul's garden, going through the gate that connected the McCartney residence and the Jones-Lennon house. At first he'd expected to see her sat under the tree at the end of her garden, sat on one of its roots with a cigarette between her teeth, her hands running through her wild blonde hair. It was a sight he'd gotten used to as a teenager to the extent that he always expected to see her there whenever he was at Paul's house and dared to glance over to Connie's garden. It was a painful memory of the time before when everything seemed so peaceful and good, before Connie moved so far away, and it still stung ever so slightly to see she wasn't there. So much had changed, and Connie wasn't the teenaged girl who George would sit under the tree and look up at the stars with anymore, but yet he still felt as though he knew her as well as he knew himself, regardless of the differences he'd felt in her since her return from London.

She wasn't under the tree, so he assumed she'd gone into her house. Thankfully the back door into her kitchen was unlocked, the way it usually was as she was always expecting visitors, someone always scheduled to be calling by. He made his way into her house, calling her name, trying to ignore how quiet it seemed when it used to be a house so full of fun and banter. Connie wasn't in the back room where the piano was, or the kitchen, or even the living room where he thought he'd see her stood over her record player, singing along to Chuck Berry, so he assumed she was upstairs packing. Quietly, he crossed the living room, going into the hallway to the staircase. It was only there, stood at the bottom of the stairs, that he heard the muffled sobs that that were undeniably coming from his best friend.

Any hesitation was out of the window as George quickly ran up the stairs, practically throwing himself across the landing to her bedroom door, almost falling into her room as he didn't expect the door to be open. Even with his thundering footsteps, Connie hadn't noticed his presence, laid on her single bed facing the wall opposite the door. She was curled up, her hands covering her face as she cried into what looked like her cardigan and a photo frame. George spotted the cans of ginger ale on her bedside cabinet, the empty bottle of whisky accompanying it, though he barely took any notice of them, not even considering the fact that the two of them were probably far too tipsy to have a serious conversation. It was a good thing that he hadn't realised that, as he made his way over to her bed, sitting down next to her, and as she felt the bed dip at his arrival, she sat up far too quickly, wiping her hands across her face in an attempt to hide her tears, though there was no hiding the red streaks staining her cheeks.

"Shit, George, it's rude not to bloody knock," she snapped weakly, though he knew she meant no aggression, simply hating the fact that he was seeing her so emotional.

"I know, I'm sorry, it's just..." he began, drifting off as he looked down to the picture frame she was holding.

It was the photograph that had been taken a few weeks after he first joined the band when they were still called the Quarrymen, and it was only a few days after she'd punched the bus stop, her knuckles still wrapped up in bandages. It had been taken at some event they'd played at some club, he struggled to remember the exact details, but he remembered the photo being taken just after they'd come off stage, Connie excitedly pulling George into a hug whilst Paul had leant over to ruffle her hair, John stood off to the side slightly with his face turned up in an excited grin. It was such a joyous image, and George instantly felt drawn to just how beautiful he thought Connie looked, remembering how much he'd always cared for her, even when they were teenagers. He couldn't quite believe she'd kept it by her bedside, even after all those years.

"You played Raunchy on stage that night," Connie spoke up, her voice shaking slightly as she plaed the frame back onto her bedside table, a sad smile appearing for only a second. "Me and Paul had been telling John how good you were for weeks before he let you join the band, and that was the first time I saw the three of you play together properly, at a club and not just mine or Paul's living room. When you started to play... I was so proud, Gee. I mean I still am, shitting hell, you've got a song in the charts and you're not even twenty yet, but Jesus, that night... That was when I realised just how proud I was to be your mate,"

"Why're you crying, Con?" he asked gently, daring to reach his hand out and take hold of hers. It was meant as a gesture of comfort, but she took hold his, squeezing it gently as she moved to sit closer to him.

"I'm not," she muttered, and when George let out a scoff of disbelief she looked up at him with sad eyes, letting out a long sigh. "I just... Look at that picture,"

"Yeah..." he began, and if he hadn't of drank so much with Ringo earlier he might not have added, "You look beautiful there,"

"I look happy," she corrected him, barely noticing his compliment. "D'you know there isn't a single picture of me in London because I don't do anything but work, but if there was, I know I wouldn't look half as happy in them as I do there. I always thought life was meant to get better as you get older, but maybe I just peaked at fifteen right there in that photo, maybe I messed my life up the minute I left Liverpool,"

"What do you mean?" he frowned in concern, shifting his position so he could face her properly, not realising just how close they were now sat, their close proximity leaving his gaze to fall to her lips.

"I thought..." she began, biting her lip slightly, glancing up at him nervously, barely realising that he'd reached his hand out to her face, his thumb stroking away tears that she didn't even know she'd cried. "I thought London was gonna be some big adventure. I knew it'd be hard, and I knew I'd hate being away from everyone and everything that I know, but I thought I was strong enough for it all. I assumed it'd be fun and just like things were here, and that I'd end up with loads of mates and a great career, but I'm stuck writing articles about things that I hate surrounded by people who barely understand a word I say when I talk in my normal accent. D'you know how bloody boring it is writing on train cancellations and music that I hate? And what makes it worse is there's no one for me to come home to, to unwind with. It's not like I get home and Paul's next door or my dad's gonna come through the door home from work any minute, and it's not like John's ten minutes away on the bus or Ringo's gonna appear at work one day, and I can't just see Florie and Cill any times I want, and you... I don't get to see you anymore, and no one in London even comes close to being as brilliant as you,"

"Con..."he attempted to interrupt, sensing her spiralling emotions, his hand moving from hers to hold her arm genty, pulling her closer in a half-embrace.

"I'm just... so alone," she breathed out, and at first George thought she was going to break down into tears but instead she let out a small sigh, her forehead creasing together as if she was in pain, before leaning over, practically falling into him.

George froze, not sure what to do, especially as Connie buried her face into the crook of his neck. Slowly, he moved to hug her, his hands gently stroking her back, feeling her take in a few shaky breaths as if she was trying to stop herself from crying. They'd hugged each other before, but this felt so different, Connie never showing such an emotional display to him before. She'd never been this vulnerable in front of him before, usually shielding any upset from him and everyone else, and he almost felt proud that she was allowing herself to be this open with him, until he felt the aching in his stomach once more, feeling the impact of her words as he realised just how hard she must be finding things since she had gone, even if she was so good at hiding her struggles.

"You're not alone," he whispered to her, one of his hands moving from her back to stroke her hair, his fingers knotting through her blonde curls. "You're never alone, ever, alright?"

"But I am, Georgie,"she gasped out, sitting up slightly to look at him once more, the same pained expression crossing her face, one that made his chest tighten slightly in endearment and hurt. "I didn't realise before I came home but... I'm just so lonely, all the time,"

"You have loads of mates, Con," he reassured her, nodding his head in the direction of the wall, where her house backed onto Paul's, the dim sound of music and laughter barely audible through the wall. "You know you have all of us, we all love ya' to bits, Con. You've always got us, and you've always got me,"

"But I haven't," she shook her head, looking down as she found herself unable to meet his eye.

It was then that he spotted the silver chain hanging around her neck, the locket he'd given her over two years ago hidden under her shirt. He reached out, taking hold of the chain carefully, holding the locket between his fingers, a nostalgic smile growing on his face. Connie looked up at him, frowning softly as she tried to figure out what he was thinking, her mind drowning in the memory of the night he had given her the necklace. She was so focused on the memory that she barely felt him let go of the chain, his hands instead moving to hold her face, barely realising that he'd guided her face to his, only realising what exactly was happening when she felt his lips against hers.

Even George, who was the one who'd kissed her, didn't fully understand what was happening. What made him kiss Connie he wasn't sure, but yet there he was, his hand going to the back of her head, pushing his lips to hers softly the way he'd wanted to do for so long. He'd been wanting to kiss he for longer than he could remember, and it was everything he had ever dreamed of, or at least that's how he felt in his mildly drunken state. Even though he was intoxicated, a few seconds after he had initiated the kiss he realised she wasn't kissing him back, so he immediately pulled away from her. No matter how much he had wanted to kiss her, he hated the idea that he had forced something onto her, made her do something she didn't want to do. She'd just been crying and had clearly drank a lot. Her head was not in the right place and he instantly panicked, worrying that she would think he had taken advantage of her rather than just acting on a whim, a spur of the moment decision.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he quickly exclaimed out an apology, his face flushing red as he attempted to move away from her, though her hands were still holding onto him, making him frown in confusion as he realised she was not letting him go. "I just... I didn't want to... I just wanted you to know that you're not alone. I'm always gonna be here for you, Connie. Even if you're so far away in London, you're always gonna have me,"

George had barely finished speaking when Connie's hands moved, seizing his shirt collars and pulling him close once more, sitting up as she pushed her lips against his, this time no longer soft or gentle but rough, as if she was allowing herself to give in to years worth of pent up passion. It was clumsy, but it was caring and compassionate, as if the two were finally letting each other understand all that they had kept hidden. They'd both had feelings for each other for so long, burying them away under the fear of rejection, but now none of that mattered, not as they held each other the way they had only dared to dream of, kissing each other as though the other was the only thing that mattered in the world.

"We shouldn't," George mumbled as she pulled away to catch her breath, though she ignored him, her fingers still knotted through his dark hair, her eyes still gazing into his. "Not like this, not while you're-"

"I don't care, Georgie," she shook her head, knowing he was just being cautious because they were both drunk, but in reality, Connie had never been more certain of anything than she was over her longing for her best friend. "I want to be with you,"

To say they'd both been so restrictive when it came to their feelings for each other, everything felt so natural, so right, as if they'd done this all before. Connie had only kissed two men before, and neither of them could compare to George in the way that he made her feel so alive, and whilst George had been with a few women before, no one compared to Connie, the girl he'd been dreaming about for so long. It felt rather sudden, to go from just talking to making out, with George pushing her down onto the bed to kiss her properly, his hands squeezing at her waist whilst hers worked at unbuttoning his shirt, but their senses were blurred by the alcohol in their systems, their long-restricted desire taking over.

Neither of them were quite sure how things progressed from there, the memories of the night fading from the moment the two of them began to take each other's shirts off, but there was no denying what had happened when the two of them woke up together, their bodies intertwined in an embrace.

***

Word count: 4197

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