Work Text:
George was bloody freezing.
An icy wind had already been whipping them by midday. As the sun dipped dangerously lower, their attempts to secure a warm place to sleep that night quickly grew more and more desperate.
They'd been lucky in other places during their hitchhiking adventure–kindly mothers whose sons were gone, shopkeepers, friendly Salvation Army girls–but in Chepstow, on the coldest day yet, they'd had no luck.
Unbelievable gales this time of year, a shopkeeper had said, shaking his head sadly at the two of them.
Just their bloody luck.
By the time the sun had decidedly set, the two of them had resorted to begging the coppers to let them sleep in one of their empty cells. To their great disappointment, they'd been told–not too cordially–to "bugger off."
When their faces fell, an older copper around George’s father’s age had sighed, and suggested they could probably sleep in the football grandstand. Tell the old watchman they said it was alright.
So, out of options, they timidly approached the old watchman, guitars and knapsacks over their shoulders.
He looked them over for a long time, eyes narrowed in mistrust. But, he eventually opened the creaky gate with a scowl, shot them one last piercing look, and hobbled away.
"Well," Paul said, as the two of them walked into the huge, empty field. "I s'ppose this isn't so bad?"
George laughed, and looked at Paul’s exhausted, lopsided grin.
Despite the circumstances, Paul looked happy. He walked with a little spring in his step, and swung his arms high as the two of them trudged across the field.
A sudden urge took hold of George. He shrugged off his knapsack and guitar, and then immediately began to run, sprint through the wet field as fast as he could. Like one of those footballers he’d always dreamed of being when he was small, back before he'd heard about rock and roll.
"And he's off!" Paul's voice, further and further away. "Harrison's got it, Harrison's going to score, Liverpool, the new champions!"
George jumped into the goal, thrust his hands out wide like the footballers did, and shouted as loud as he could.
Then he collapsed dramatically, sinking into the wet field.
The stars looked quite nice. They certainly didn’t get this many stars in the city.
He heard Paul’s laugh, heard his wet footsteps coming nearer.
George spread his fingers out on the icy grass, closed his eyes.
Two footsteps squelched next to his legs.
George opened an eye. Paul was leaning above him, hand outstretched. He had George's things slung across his shoulder.
"Come 'ead," Paul snickered. George took his hand.
The wooden stands were also cold and wet.
"Christ," George said, as he tried to lie down on the wooden plank, squirming uncomfortably. "I reckon we won't sleep a wink like this."
George sat up in defeat, grimaced at Paul.
Paul grimaced back.
"Want a ciggie?'" he asked.
George held out his hand.
The fag helped a bit. They sat side by side, closer and closer. Arms crossed tightly, savoring the warmth of each other. Watching the hot smoke tendrils slowly float down the stands.
But eventually, the allure of sleep, even in this freezing weather, even with the nicotine now buzzing through them, was too great.
They had to knock out a couple of hours at least, so that they could continue on tomorrow.
George’s neck ached on his knapsack. The dampness of the wood was seeping into his trousers.
And he was bloody, bloody cold.
George sighed, trying to forget.
The stars blinked down proudly, clear and bright.
George wondered how Paul was getting on. He lay on a plank just a bit above him.
George shivered, rubbed his knees.
Maybe Paul was also too cold to sleep.
"Paul?" George asked, suddenly feeling very timid.
Silence. Then–
"Yeah, George?"
George turned on his side in the darkness, squinting his eyes, trying to see Paul.
“Are you as bloody cold as me?”
George heard Paul laugh. It echoed through the dead silence of the stands.
“Yeah,” Paul croaked.
George swallowed, considering.
But Christ, he was cold.
"Want to–want to lay next to me?"
Paul was silent for a few seconds.
Then–
“Sod it, ya."
Paul came down a stand, and squeezed onto the bench, his heat now firmly next to George's.
The warmth felt a bit better. Just a bit.
George sighed.
"Fucking freezing," George said, letting himself relax completely into Paul, now that he knew it was alright. "I wouldn't be surprised if me balls freeze off tonight. If I become a eunuch. End the family line with me."
Paul scoffed.
"As if you'd ever continue the old Harrison line besides."
George punched Paul's leg. Paul yelped, rubbed the spot with a groan.
"Ow, mate, just a joke–"
"I've got plenty of birds to choose from."
"Right. "
"Just taking my sweet time."
Paul hummed.
"Sure, George. Shall we sleep?"
Silence.
"I've got plenty of birds," George mumbled, still annoyed. "Craving me, all day. Enough to drive anyone mad."
George burrowed his head into Paul's shoulder, not really thinking. So tired.
He felt Paul's breath hitch.
But then Paul's head relaxed against his. It felt nice.
It had been so long since the two of them were together. Ever since John came around...but of course, George had nothing against John. George really liked John.
But he missed Paul all the same.
These days, John had been busy, busy with art school and Cynthia and Stu, so they hadn’t had band practice in months. Though it was somewhat disappointing to have no band, George was pleasantly surprised how nice it had been, just Paul and him. Like how it used to be.
(Minus the few times over the past few days when George had snuck a look, and had been disconcerted by the baffling misery spread across Paul’s face.)
Maybe it would stay like this between them now, he thought dreamily, rubbing his face into Paul’s warmth. Just the two of them.
He could almost sleep. But he was getting more and more aware of how terribly cold his hands were.
"Me hands are fucking freezing," George finally mumbled tiredly. "Feel like bloody icicles."
He felt Paul's body still next to his.
"Go to sleep, George."
"Well, aren't yours?"
"No."
"Dirty liar."
Paul didn't respond.
George didn’t know exactly why he did it. Something he didn’t quite understand had him suddenly reaching for Paul in the darkness, his icy hands darting down Paul's arms. Searching blindly, roughly, for Paul’s hands.
He found them.
They were cold–though slightly less so than George's.
"Hah!" George said, as his right hand grabbed Paul's, and the shock was so cold for both of them that they both audibly gasped.
Then Paul snorted.
"Come on, George. Put me hand down, you git."
George started rubbing his palm against Paul’s.
"No. They're warming up."
Paul made a noncommittal noise.
George dropped his palm, but interlaced their fingers. He noticed Paul gave little resistance. Just small, short sighs.
Then, George shoved their interlocked hands under Paul's jumper. Pushed them up to rest on a particularly warm patch on Paul’s stomach.
Paul's body twitched.
"There," George said, "Nice and warm."
Paul sighed. Sleepy, resigned.
"Ye have bony fingers," he said, yawning. "Thas–that’s why they're so bloody cold."
George flushed in the darkness.
"Well," he said quietly, "I guess that's why I like holding your thick, warm fingers, Mr. McCartney. Lucky, aren’t I?"
He squeezed their hands.
Silence.
George would have squeezed again.
Always wanting Paul to give him more.
But sleep was beginning to surround him. He was beginning to stumble, dipping in and out of sleep, his thoughts transforming into nonsensicalities.
He was content. Paul was warm.
Until–
"I’m sorry."
George blinked his eyes open hard. Completely shot out from his long, gentle fall into a deep sleep.
"Wha’?" he choked out, quickly moving his head out of the crook of Paul’s shoulder.
George heard Paul swallow. Paul wasn’t looking at him. His voice was muffled, turned the other way.
“You know. For–for not spending more time with you.”
George realized that Paul’s hand was actually too hot, too sweaty. Should he release it?
“We were best mates, after all."
Were.
George scrunched his eyes tight. This was uncomfortable. He never expected Paul to address it.
John's name was unspoken.
"It–it's fine," George forced out. Maybe spat out.
He really didn't mean it to sound so hostile, though.
He heard Paul's head turn slowly on the wet wood, slide to face him.
It was so dark, George could barely make out the outline of Paul’s face.
"But it’s not fine, George."
George swallowed. The silence was uncomfortable. He wasn't sure how Paul expected him to respond.
"Well, well, we're bloody here together now, aren't we?” George lifted up their hands under Paul’s jumper, shook them back and forth. “Holding hands, a romantic night in Wales, under the stars?"
Paul laughed.
"S'ppose so, Georgie."
George felt a natural smile come onto his face. He wriggled back into Paul, put his head back right where it had been. It was alright now. He was happy, just happy to be with Paul. Willfully forgetting all the ways they weren’t supposed to fit like this.
And away he fell. George imagined he was wading into a river, a cold river that was slowly parting just for him. Like Moses. But instead of a staff he had his guitar, he was playing, people were cheering on the riverbank…
"George?"
George started, his body barreling back to Chepstow, cheeks whipped suddenly with the freezing cold air.
He shook, shot up. This time, anger coursed through him.
“Bloody hell, Paul! I was asleep!”
“Sorry, sorry–” Paul mumbled, quieter and quieter.
George lifted his head from Paul’s shoulder, eyes narrowed, trying to find an outline of the face to which he could express his great annoyance.
George strained his eyes. He could see Paul's forehead, his uncombed black hair falling messily over it. Two wide ears poking out of his hair.
Paul’s warm hand squeezed his, as if in apology.
George didn’t squeeze back.
"Alright, we gonna get some kip, or what?” he snapped, feeling especially exasperated now. “Paul–”
"Just, can I tell you something?"
George slowed. He could now make out Paul's bright eyes in the darkness. The shape of his mouth.
He wondered if Paul’s lips were as warm as the rest of him.
“What?” George said, sighing in residual exasperation. He twisted his torso, turning his head to rest upwards, towards the twinkling stars instead of Paul.
More silence.
George made a loud noise of impatience.
“I’m quite sleepy Paul, would you like to–”
“I never wanted to stop being your mate.”
George sniffed. One of his nose hairs was frozen.
“Come on, Paul," he breathed quietly, his throat feeling oddly strained. "We’re still mates.”
George turned his head back towards Paul, hoping he would give it a rest.
Paul’s face seemed to be moving closer in the darkness. His hand grew tighter, squeezed around George’s again. Too hard.
“But it’s different,” Paul said simply, “Because of John.”
Paul was getting so close, George could feel Paul's hot breath reaching his nose.
George didn’t think they’d ever been so close before. He could nearly make out the tips of Paul’s eyelashes.
“You know, I was so happy that day,” Paul continued softly. “That day we met. When you sat next to me on the bus.”
George forced out a laugh.
He needed to lighten the mood. Escape from Paul’s strange, sudden need to confess.
“You looked so desperately lonely,” George said, trying his best to sound lazy, unbothered. “I couldn’t help my aching heart, I had to step in.”
Aching heart.
Paul’s head suddenly jabbed into George. He was burrowing himself into George, trying to fit deep inside the crook of his neck, just as George had done to him.
George squirmed in discomfort. Unlike Paul, George was skinny, bony, couldn't possibly provide comfort for Paul’s heavy head. Was this somehow comfortable for Paul?
George thought he saw Paul’s tired, wide eyes look up at him in the darkness.
“Thank you,” Paul said, voice cracking. “Honestly.”
George felt an urge, looking at Paul below him.
Paul so strangely unshielded, for the first time in years.
The wonderful closeness of the past few days had been nice. Sitting wobbly on the back of lorries, messing about on their guitars in the early morning at the inn. Paul pulling out his new camera, making George pose and scowl in front of various landmarks.
A sadness hanging over Paul, that George had successfully shooed away over the past few days. George was proud of that. He had made Paul laugh so hard, so hard he couldn’t speak. So hard he couldn’t possibly return to that drooping, quiet misery.
Paul’s face, so very very close.
It was an urge like before, when he ran across the field.
George crossed the distance, and leapt blindly for Paul's lips.
He found them easily.
George pressed his lips against Paul's. A chaste kiss.
They felt nice. So soft.
And his lips were warm.
Paul responded. Kissed him back softly, once. Twice.
All the while, their hands were still tightly clasped under Paul’s jumper. George squeezed Paul’s hand.
George leaned in for another kiss–but then Paul leaned backwards, away.
They lay side by side. Faces to the stars.
George breathed, recovered. Felt his heartbeat go down. Sinking.
Finally–
“We should probably sleep,” Paul said softly.
George nodded. Yes. He was very tired.
He didn’t quite know what had just happened. Why he had just done that.
George closed his eyes. He just had to get through the next few minutes.
Five minutes passed.
Paul had kissed him back so easily.
Maybe another five.
Paul hadn’t even been surprised, when George had leaned in.
George didn’t know why he finally spoke. Why he felt he had to. Why the bile was rising, despite himself.
Despite the fact that he knew it made no difference.
“You’ve done that before.”
Silence.
Then–
“Yeah.”
George swallowed, not wanting to know the answer.
(Though of course, he knew the answer.)
“With John.”
A beat.
“Yes,” Paul admitted quietly.
A light wind started. It burned George’s cheeks.
George let out a sharp breath.
Now, the wind was really picking up. It was getting louder. George wondered if they could manage to sleep at all now, with all that wind.
Unbelievable gales this time of year.
He wondered, also, how they were still holding hands so easily. So naturally. Despite it all.
“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered.
A jealous anger was racing, rising, growing–
JohnandPaulJohnandPaul always them, always together since that hot summer day in July that Paul always talked about with bright starry eyes, JohnPaulJohnPaul, they were all that mattered, George a supporting character in their story–
The wind suddenly stopped.
George breathed. Felt the warmth return to his cheeks.
His burst of anger quickly subsided.
Because really, what had Paul done wrong, in the end?
George felt himself begin to stroke Paul’s thumb.
It was quite strange. Being able to forgive so quickly.
“It’s okay,” George whispered.
For some reason, Paul had thicker calluses than him.
George heard Paul inhale sharply, about to speak.
“Really, Paul,” George said, turning back to find Paul. He wanted this to end. Wanted Paul to understand.
His eyes met Paul’s in the dark. George wondered how on Earth he could manage to see how Paul's eyes were glistening in the darkness.
“It is,” George said firmly.
And George was genuine.
George turned into Paul, burrowing his head in Paul’s warmth again. That worked better, because he was so very bony and Paul was warm, thicker. This was how it should be.
George lay a soft kiss onto Paul’s neck.
Maybe he had always loved him. Ever since that first day. Paul had been so nervous, sitting so very alone. Almost shivering in his uniform. It hadn’t been hard for George to smile, extend his hand confidently, ask if the seat was taken.
Paul’s face of gratitude, a brightness taking over.
“Now we go to sleep, alright?” George asked quietly, squeezing Paul’s warm hand.
Paul’s body relaxed. Relief?
“‘Night, Paul,” George said.
George thought, though of course it made no sense, that he could hear Paul smile in the darkness.
“Good night, George,” Paul breathed.
It was all okay.
George was now so warm, so oddly relieved, that he wasn’t surprised one bit that he fell asleep almost instantly.
Wasn’t surprised when he woke up curled into Paul, streams of golden sun surrounding them.
The grandstand was now completely illuminated—almost blinding—under the late morning light.