#maybe with a bit of mcharrison angst

[georgeharrisonsmiling]

One of the funniest comments I've seen so far is that Jeff Lynne was George Harrison's Yoko Ono. Of course they meant that as an insult but it's so funny.

[cinnamontoastandtears]

random fic time

so, i got a request for a mcharrison teddy boy era first kiss, and putting aside how long it took me to write it, i also messed it up a little by turning it into a bit of an angst fest and making it way too plotty (must be riding my high from the other george/paul fic lmao) but i wanted to give this to y’all anyway so: here you go !!

(to the anon that requested the first kiss in the first place, dw, i’m going to write you another)

warning: drunkenness and a brief description of nausea

George stumbled up the steps with big thunks, feet heavy from the whiskey in his system, whiskey in his system because he’d been drinking alone.

Paul had been too busy with John to go out with him. Perfect John, with his perfect fucking hair, and his not-so-perfect guitar playing that even Paul, ever the perfectionist, seemed to love.

So George drank alone. And now he was coming back to the hotel alone, arms empty and mind clouded so he didn’t have to think about who he wished was in them. The view of their floor greeted him before he was ready to meet it and a groan left his lips.

He composed himself against the peeling wallpaper for a few minutes before steeling himself and trudging into the room he shared with Paul.

He found the slightly older man alone, surprisingly, strumming away on his guitar, fingers flashing and angry and not caring that they were making discordant sounds.

“Where’s John?” he muttered, letting the door slam behind him.

“With Stu,” Paul bit out, strumming hard again.

Oh. Right.

George had forgotten he wasn’t the only one that could be jealous. (Or something like that, it wasn’t that he was so jealous anyway, but-)

“Hmm,” George said, flopping down onto his bed. His stomach hated him for that, churning and sending a brief taste of bile to the back of his throat. “Guess you an’ I are one in the same then, eh?”

Paul stopped playing. George replayed his last words back over in his head, taking a minute to let it dawn on him. He shouldn’t have said that.

There came the sound of Paul moving his guitar to the side of the bed, and then more shuffling George’s deaf-from-a-crowded-bar ears couldn’t interpret. So late an hour, so complicated of feelings. His head felt like a brick.

Paul must have stood up in the lengthy amount of time it took George to figure all those sounds out (the shucking of a jacket and belt and shoes), for he was then standing over George’s bed, looking threatening as a shadow in the dark room.

“What do you mean?”

“What?”

“What did you mean, ‘we’re one in the same’?”

George knew. He knew what Paul meant, the question he was asking without even fuckin asking it, bitter with only half-wisdom on his side. (Paul was wise enough to figure himself out, not quite enough for other people. Though, of course, he was still a teenager, so there may have been lack of maturity involved as well.)

“Jus’…” George started, heaving his upper half from where it had finally rested comfortably on the lumpy mattress. “Jus’…”

He’d never been good at putting his feelings right. Never been good at explanations or confrontation or any of the shit you were supposed to be able to say to someone when you felt violated or when you wanted something. So maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the sheer-fucking-unfairness, but something deep inside made George gather all his feelings and spit them out of his mouth.

“You’re not the only one who gets to act jealous an’- an’ be a prick to everyone because of it. You do it too! Don’t be sittin’ there all stupid an’ angry and envious when you’re just as bad as John leavin’ with Stu to do god-knows-what. That’s not fuckin’ fair.”

George got the impression he sounded whiny, so he closed his mouth, not wanting to give Paul any reason to call him a child or immature or anything so harsh. (Barely nine months. Barely nine months and he felt entitled to treat him like that.)

“What…?” Paul’s face wasn’t clear to George even though he’d shifted and his feet were in between Paul’s feet and he was looking up at his face. This didn’t mean that he didn’t know the exact expression that was etched there.

Ticked brow, slanted mouth, bottom lip pulled slightly in. George had studied this face at length. He knew how it looked when confused.

“I’m here, fuckin’ off by myself while you’re out with John, givin’ each other a hand or some utter bullshite like that, leavin’ me alone. An’ that’s why it’s not fuckin’ fair for me to come home an’ you to be awake an’ upset an’ goin’ ‘what?’ like you don’t fuckin’ know exactly what.”

If George was the type of person who cried, he’d be in tears by now, he’d be ugly-crying and sniveling and shit and Paul probably would’ve backed away instead of doing what he did instead, which was to sink down next to George on the bed and sigh.

“I…” he started, then stopped. It almost made sense. Such an eloquent person, yet when the quiet one spoke up, all his words lost. “How do you feel about me then?” he asked instead, turning the burden of talking back to George.

The room was still dark, his head was still fogged, Paul’s shoulder brushed his and he shuddered. That should’ve said it all, really.

“What do you mean?” he asked, unintentionally mirroring Paul’s question from earlier.

“You’re jealous of me-“

“I’m jealous of John.”

“Oh. Well… right, well, jealous of him then.” Paul paused again like he was going to say something else. “For…?”

“For replacin’ me.”

“Oh.”

“Continue,” George offered, motioning with his hand.

“You’re jealous of John… for replacin’ you… an’ you’re angry at me for bein’—“ George wondered if he’d admit it, “—jealous of Stuart.” If George was a bit more sober he’d be impressed. “So I just wanna know what you think of me. Are you angry or do you wish that you were in John’s place, gettin’ to be with me like…”

George’s brain alerted him to a tone that hadn’t been in Paul’s voice before. Something almost flirtatious, walking a dangerous line between something he wanted and something he wasn’t sure he wanted. He’d always just wanted to be close to Paul. Who wouldn’t want that? But this close, what the way his hands reaching down into the gap between his and Paul’s thighs implied, this close he’d never thought of before. (And so what if that was a lie, it wasn’t like everyone was telling the truth tonight.)

“George?” Paul asked, letting George lace their fingers together.

“This is what I think of you,” he said, instead of answering the not-really-question, and put his other hand on Paul’s cheek.

“What—?”

“You known exactly what.” And George kissed him.

He hadn’t had many kisses in his life time, exactly, but enough to know when a kiss was good. Kissing Paul was good. Not right, something this taboo couldn’t possibly be right, but good nonetheless, heavenly somehow, Paul’s favorite—perfect.

Paul’s lips were soft and small and wet, and George couldn’t believe he was kissing them, that their lips were the ones meeting and not Paul and John’s like they always threatened to. Then Paul pulled away just a second to breathe, gasping and moaning just the tiniest bit, which sent George’s mind away, leaving him unprepared for when Paul dove in again.

George pushed him down into the mattress and Paul let him and Paul was letting him, and he was kissing back and…

They pulled away eventually and George rolled off of Paul’s chest, not wanting to crush him with his… well he didn’t weigh much so it might have been fine, but even still.

“That’s how I feel about you,” he managed to say, voice the tiniest bit wrecked from kissing for so long.

“I… me too… how I feel about you too,” Paul said, sounding like he was in a dream, somewhere far away.

This confused George. He’d only just figured out he felt for Paul this way, and didn’t he… didn’t John and Paul…

“What about John?”

“What about him?” Paul asked.

“Don’t you… how do you feel about him?”

George felt Paul turn toward him, so he turned too, and they were facing with each other and this was confrontation, a thing George wasn’t good at.

“I don’t… me an’ John are friends, Georgie. That’s it.”

“But you… but why…” There were several things that didn’t make sense about this. If Paul really liked him, wanted to kiss him and be with him, why did he spend all his time with John? Why did he ignore George, why was he only even here in their room because John was with Stuart?

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s still not fair,” George whispered, pretending that tears weren’t pricking his eyes. (And maybe he was the kind of person who cried.) “You can’t be tellin’ me you feel this way about me an’ then ignore me an’ be mopey when John’s gone. You can’t do that, Paul. What is that kinda shit?”

“I…” Paul started, then stopped again, losing his eloquence all over. “I don’ know…”

That wasn’t good enough. George said so and Paul’s eyebrows turned into each other and George wondered how he could save this friendship.

He didn’t have any time to think about that though because Paul kissed him again, and he wanted this, and this was what he wanted… wasn’t it?

“Paul…” George pulled away from the kiss. (How could something that felt so good be so bad and wrong and-)

“George, I don’ know how to explain myself. Maybe I was jus’ so scared that you were gonna reject me that I spent all my time with John to avoid that. But I promise, really, I promise, Geo, I don’ feel this way about John.”

The thing was, George wasn’t sure if he believed him. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to. But… Paul looked at him again, and the room was dark, and his eyes were shining, and they were alone.

So if they kissed a few more times or fell asleep in the same bed together, that would be enough right now. (And if John and Stuart came back the next morning, John’s collarbone littered with suspicious marks… Well, Paul wore them too, and George could lose a bit of the green in his eyes.)

[beatles-slash-fiction]

We didn't get mcharrison for a long time. Can I get even pre Hamburg Geogre falling in love with Paul but he doesn't feel the same? Poor George tries to kiss him but he's like "umm no sorry" and so poor boy has to see how his crush falls in love with John and all but he still loves him and he's happy for him but still hurts and aaah angst angst angst andhwknshsj

Sometimes George wonders if things might have been different if they had never met John.

When he musters the courage to kiss Paul when they’re on a hitchhiking holiday when he’s sixteen, only to be very gently and kindly rejected, George clings to the hope that maybe Paul’s feelings might change.

Maybe Paul still sees him as a bit of a baby brother, and once George gets past his pimply post-pubescent phase, things might change.

But the only thing that changes is Paul’s feelings towards John.

George can’t exactly resent John. John is handsome and funny and a talented songwriter; everything George is not.

But that doesn’t make it any less painful when he sees John and Paul holding hands, or when he catches them snogging after rehearsals. If there’s anything he can take comfort from, it’s that Paul is happy at least.

But George knows he’ll always be Paul’s baby brother, and he just has to accept that.