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“i don’t see what the big fuss is about—”
“you don’t— george, you’re shagging ringo!”
he scoffed incredulously, feeling mad from the hypocrisy of it all. “so fucking what? ‘s not like you’ve not been shagging john since hamburg—”
“this has nothing to do with john, don’t you bring him into it—”
there it was, that familiar, all-encompassing rage, the same burning fire george felt whenever paul dismissed a song or john looked down his nose at him. so imperious, so much better than him, like the only thing that ever mattered in relation to the band was johnandpaul and paulandjohn. nothing to do with john. the only reason any of this had even started was because of him. the only reason they’d ever been pulled apart was because of him.
“this has everything to do with john, paul, fuckin’ everything! you two don’t give a damn about anythin’ beyond yerselves, ever! the only reason we’re even having this conversation is ‘cause you’re scared it’ll get out!” george was seething, blind in his rage, seconds from reaching out and wrapping his hands around that pale, smooth neck of paul’s.
“y’know what, george, i am! do you have any idea what that would do to us, to the band—” paul was gesturing wildly, cheeks flushed, hazel eyes wide. he was beautiful, even now, and it only made george angrier.
“oh, i hadn’t thought about it, really,” he snapped sarcastically, trembling all over. “figured it wouldn’t really matter, ‘cause it’ll never get out, ‘cause it’s only been happenin’ for two years and nobody’s even batted an eye ‘til now, nobody’s even noticed! what, are you the only one allowed to fuck a bandmate? i know it’s a little hard to pay attention to anything when john’s prick is so far up your arse—”
paul made a horrified, enraged noise, and started forwards. fucking finally. his blood was singing for a fight, aching and yearning to make the feelings he’d kept bottled up for so long physical, to make him feel an inch of the pain he’d suffered through for years. with fire in his veins, george made to step forwards and meet him, fists-first, but then— there was a knock. quiet and gentle, knock-knock, pause, knock, pause, knock knock. instantly he knew who it was, and the fire turned to ice just as quickly as it’d sparked up. how was she here? why was she here? it was just like her to have the worst possible timing, too. fuck. annoyance crept up, at paul, john, her, at the entire fucking ridiculous situation. this was decidedly not okay. this was horrible, in fact.
without looking away from the door, george moved, twisting just so that he wouldn’t touch paul. that proved futile when a calloused hand wrapped around his upper arm, pulling him to a stop and refusing to let him wiggle away. moments like this had him cursing the fact that paul was bigger than him, stronger, more specifically. he was always finding some way to one up him and prove himself better. the worst part of it all was that objectively, he was, in practically every way. a better songwriter, lyricist, public figure, friend, more handsome and taller and stronger and, and, and. the only thing he could feasibly, maybe, be better at would be the guitar, but even that was only playing, and only technically. paul was still better at coaxing melodies out of the strings than he was.
“what?” george snapped, sharp features twisted into a vicious scowl. “what do you want now?”
“we’re speaking later,” paul replied, tone low and eyebrows drawn together. with his cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright from the adrenaline of arguing, he looked awfully like a disgruntled cherub. cherub that needs punting, he thought.
“like hell we are,” he made to pull away again, almost attempting to lift his arm away; his grip only tightened. his expression darkened further, long eyelashes casting shadows across soft cheeks. “paul—“
there was no dissuading him. “we are speaking later,” paul repeated stonily, leaning in, using that one extra inch to make his presence all the more demanding. “we’re speaking later, and you will listen to me, george, do you understand? this isn’t something you can get out of.”
the rage was back, bubbling so hot and potent in his throat that he was sure he’d throw it all up into paul’s face and it would melt him away like acid. fuck. fuck. “you’re not my mother,” george spat in a fierce whisper, as the knocking began again and a sweet voice called “george?” from the other side. “there’s nothing to discuss, you controlling prick. now let go!”
he did, finally, though it was obvious there was more he wanted to say. probably something like i know you, george, i know how this will end up, or john and i are different, george, it’s not the same as you and richie, or, best of all, he doesn’t know you like i do, georgie-mine, he can’t take care of you like i do. as if he had the monopoly on his body.
with a scathing glare, george pulled away and strode across the room in long steps, pausing briefly before the door to brush his hair back behind his ears and straighten his shirt a bit. there was the tiniest of seconds between twisting the handle and pulling the door open that he considered giving in, turning back and running to paul’s arms all dramatic-like and promising he wouldn’t see any man other than him—birds were different, they all knew, not nearly as important and not at all as familiar—but the thought was brief and fleeting, disappearing with the sound of the hinges as it swung open.
just like he’d expected, she was there, his gorgeous little love, his beautiful, perfect wife. in his rush to escape from paul he’d forgotten all his annoyance and felt only relief at the sight of her, blonde hair smooth and curled at the end, blue eyes round and buck teeth bared in excitement. “pattie,” george heard himself breath, and her small, pale hand, which had been poised, ready to knock, moved instead to wrap around the back of his neck as he bent down to scoop her up by the waist. she gave a giggle-shriek, burying her face into the soft skin under his jaw, dropping a kiss that earned her the shiver she knew she’d get. “tease,” george murmured under his breath, but when he set her down he was smiling and his dark eyes were bright with affection.
“oh, george,” pattie said excitedly, one hand moving to the front of his body, fingers tugging at the fabric of his james bond t-shirt. “oh, i missed you! i wasn’t sure i’d be able to come, but i just had to, you see, and jenny was able to get me a little opening and all, a break to come see a show or two—i can’t stay long, unfortunately—the cats, of course, needy buggers—“ that earned her a laugh as bright as his eyes, and she grinned a bit up at him. “well, they’re clingy, you know. i feel awful leaving them on their lonesome for too long, i mean, jenny is with them but it’s not the same, not for them or for me, but i just love traveling and i’ve missed you so—“
george interrupted her with a sudden kiss, swooping down to press their lips together fiercely, how he did when he was randy and riled up, ready to fuck her into the mattress again and again until all his energy had burnt up. pattie felt herself blush, knew he’d see it when he pulled away, was ready to push him backwards by the shoulders and drop to her knees right inside the room and suck him off until he was trembling and whimpering the way he always did, but they were interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing. she jerked away, face going even hotter, hand coming up to wipe at her lips like a teen caught snogging in an abandoned classroom. george’s expression had gone very, very still, eyebrows raised in an attempt to seem surprised. he clearly was not.
“if you don’t mind,” the voice said, and she realized paul was here, loitering in the entry hall behind them, almost seeming to be avoiding looking directly at the entwined pair. pattie made to pull away; george tightened his grip around her waist and she stayed where she was.
the anger was sparked back into being by the sound of paul’s voice and the feeling of paul’s gaze burning into the back of his neck like two hot pokers. go fuck yourself, he thought, right as paul said, “george.”
“georgie,” pattie echoed, tugging at his shirt. he realized suddenly that he’d gotten lost in his anger and was holding her tighter than he ought to, and pulled back with a small start.
“sorry,” george murmured, stepping to the side so paul could slip by and letting his arms drop from her waist so she could move forwards and greet him as well. he turned to see paul leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek, heads leaning together, light against dark, honey and coffee mixing together. pattie was saying something along the lines of paul, it’s been too long, and paul was saying love, it’s always too long when i’m not seeing you in his teasing-flirt voice. it pulled a laugh from her like tinkling bells, and george suddenly felt so nauseous he was sure if he didn’t make it to the loo in three seconds flat he’d upend his stomach contents all over the hotel carpet. he turned again, this time to escape into the room, but this movement caught their attention and pattie was reaching for him again to wrap lithe fingers around his wrist. someone always has to hold me in place, george thought wryly, and fought the urge to sigh and rip away and run out the window.
she was speaking to paul in a cheerfully peppy tone, saying “well, i’m sure we’ll have time to catch up later,” oblivious to the tension between the two men and so damned sweet that it was hard to be annoyed by it. paul, for his part, was still smiling, though it was the smile he used when he really didn’t want to talk to the person in front of him—too wide, too happy, and too interested. george thought it looked disingenuous and fake, but nobody else ever noticed. maybe that was just what happened when you knew someone for so long; you learned the shape of their true smile and hated the imitations of it for being false.
“over dinner, of course,” paul’s reply was equally as cheerful, but it was easier to be annoyed with him. it was always easy to be annoyed with him. “ta, then, geo, pattie.”
geo. fake like the smile. he didn’t answer. paul turned and so did he, pushing pattie through the doorway without a backward glance, one hand trailing down to grope at her ass. her little yelp had him grinning and following in after her, paul already forgotten in favor of his darling wife, his wife.
paul glanced over his shoulder just once, in time to see the profile of george’s face, lit up by a smile. his pattie boyd smile, not his paul mccartney smile. nausea and anger and envy twisted together inside of him.
better find john, he thought.