Chapter Text
Brian was a luckier man than most who lived the lifestyle he did. His family was only openly disappointed, and they even had the good grace to rarely show their disgust, except during times when he needed to feel particularly small. However, this acceptance came with rules, and no one was as eager to enforce them as his brother.
The fight was largely about his new line of work, just jabs about what Brian could want with a group of young men signing their lives over to him. Siblings were always easy targets of each other’s anger; Clive simply had the luck of a brother with a real sin he could clutch onto.
“Are you going to play dress up with them forever?” He’d demanded. “Maybe mum should have bought those dolls you pleaded for as a kid so you’d get it out of your system .” Brian had argued that these boys were so much more than a plastic figure to dress up and pose, but that had only spurred Clive further. “I don’t know why you keep up this charade. Everyone knows what you really want with those suits is to get ‘your boys’ out of them, ” throwing his own words back quickly. Really, Brian made himself too easy a target at times.
It ended soon after that, Clive slamming Brian’s door closed and stomping off. Brian checked the door, half expecting it to be locked from the outside. Clive had loved to play prison warden when they were younger, after all, locking Brian away and listening to how he cried and cried for their mum, always ready to come to his rescue and dry his tears. They were too old for that now, though, and Brian had learned to keep an extra pair of keys on him at all times,
Nervous energy thrilled underneath his skin despite it all. Everything had happened so fast, too fast, and Brian had barely gotten any licks in. He wanted to hit something, or maybe scream at someone. His pressed suits and sleek hair often made others assume him demure, but the truth was that Brian was a very, very angry man. Only certain figures, three of them to be exact, always escaped his ire. There were important things to do: contracts to moan about, suits to deal with, others moaning over themselves. If he didn’t get this energy out somehow, his staff would take the brunt of it tomorrow, and he was quickly running out of secretaries.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, then, that he found himself descending those concrete steps, acting for all the world as if he wasn’t falling into that blackness just as so many other men willingly did before him. Or, maybe, found was too generous a word. Perhaps stumble was a better term, because Brian certainly did not pursue the joint actively – or at least, he told himself that he didn’t. Instead, it seemed to find him whenever the malaise became too much. No one went looking for this sort of place, except perhaps subconsciously when the lying got to be too much. It wasn’t meant to be found, anyway, hidden deep underground in the shadows too dark for normal people to want to hide in.
It was a pit. If you weren’t careful, it would swallow you whole.
He’d watched many men fall into the pit’s depths, never to return to the safe life they’d once had. He considered himself an exception to the rule; the fact that he’d never lived the types of lives these other lost men had was carefully forgotten by him. He’d watched as they came to spend what they used to on new dresses for their wives and toys for their children, on drinks, drugs, and scarcely dressed men.
And yet, Brian had been a patron for years. It was comforting in its familiarity. Dirty tapestries and dirty rugs were draped upon the walls and floor, pretending their home was nicer than it ever could have been. Water had stained them where it leaked through the cracks, the dirt on top of the pit pressing down, leaving a moldy smell. The perfume that doused the place only mixed in with the musk rather than its intended purpose of disguising it. A rickety platform, which through pure luck had never fallen through in all the time since Brian had found the pit, staged multiple scantily clad men offering themselves up for the taking. The same dim lights hid the same dim faces, so only the important parts were given away: thick arms and slender fingers; stomachs hidden by only the thinnest of shirts; and, of course, everything below the waist they weren’t supposed to enjoy. Because that’s what the pit was, and that’s what it sold. Only the most depraved of men enjoyed it, but every man who came engaged with its dealings to some extent, except, of course, Brian. The more minor details blended into each other until they didn’t matter, because they couldn’t matter. God forbid anyone recognized each other.
Generally, Brian liked to think of himself as a lucky man. His many expulsions, a medical discharge from the national service, and charges of sexual misconduct before he was even twenty-five would beg to differ, but Brian was nothing if not able to delude himself into visions of grandeur. He’d once imagined himself at the West End in a leading role, after all. When he failed to see through his own life’s mission, he made others’ come true. Brian had pulled five filthy boys – then four, then three – out of the depths of Hamburg and cleaned them up until they were shiny and new and young enough not to threaten any of the industry, smoothed down their rough edges until their youth became charming and snark became clever. He knew very well how to do this, of course, because he’d done the same for himself, putting on a veneer of professionalism and innocence, all the while going to places like this. That didn’t mean Brian never felt the same despair the men around him did.
Recently, he had felt the need for neither the darkness that was the pit. Between the success of NEMS and a few new bands under his contract, the wounds seemed to be scabbing over.
Brian could never simply be content, however. Every success was sandwiched between the anxiety of failure. Every achievement lost its shimmer quickly when he told his family; comments about how he could achieve so much more if only he made different choices rusted over the gold until it was dull and flaky. The universe had a funny way of humbling him; every high came with a low, low, low.
Because the pit wasn’t just a physical location, it was an animal sinking its claws deep, sinking its claws in with each visit. The wound grew slightly bigger and bigger with every visit, until you were rabid as well. Until you dragged others into its depths. For a long time, Brian felt that maw deep inside him, so much so that he half expected to find a black hole where his stomach should be.
Brian ignored it all, heading instead towards the bar made of the same shoddy plywood as the deathtrap pretending to be more than a glorified woodshop project, intending to fill the black hole of his stomach at least a little bit. A hastily drawn “ Licensed to sell ” sign had been tacked onto the unstained wood with industrial-grade staples, though the paper always looked minutes away from tearing off.
Brian intended only to drink and ogle the working lads. Only on extremely rare occasions did he pay for any services, and never more than a quick handy or a lap dance. He was better, that way, than those surrounding him. He knew how to show restraint where they never could. Brian ordered the most expensive cocktail he could think of, anything to distance himself from the other patrons. Even then, the pit’s drinks were cheap, determined to drag him down with the rest.
The workers were lovely, though, most of them wasted in a place like this. There were nicer places out there, places that didn’t include shame as part of the package. Places where you were meant to see each other and find friends. Brian knew they existed, could very well have stepped into any of them, and let the bright colorful lights wash over him. But Brian had never been good at sharing the spotlight, and the thought that he might be nothing but a friendly part of a crowd didn’t appeal to him. At least in the pit, he could feel better about himself, pretend to be more dignified and less guilty than the men who were his peers. Surely the workers had stumbled into this mess on their way to those brighter places. The rest would probably do well elsewhere, too, if they could only kick whatever nasty habit they were funding.
Liquor settled into Brian comfortably, loosening his lips enough for him to make small talk with the bartender. “Some weather out there,” he joked, as if any nature, anything natural, would ever reach this concrete box.
He was smart enough to cut himself off before he could get properly plastered. At least, he thought so. The fight with Clive had dulled into an old enough ache by now that he could almost ignore it, if only he weren’t so used to poking old bruises. He was just about ready to close his tab when something strange happened. Somehow, one of the boys had caught his eye.
It wasn’t his looks, that was for certain. The dim lighting did its job of making things as anonymous as possible. Brian could scarcely make out a skinny body. The long figure suggested a future willowiness that his limbs had yet to grow into. His proportions weren’t helped by the awful, disjointed mess that whoever was selling him off had put him in. Whether the straps of his outfit were intended to fall off his gangly body that way or not, Brian couldn’t tell, but he’d have wagered that the way the sleeves fell down his arms was due to poor fitting instead of intentional mystique. Perhaps it was the haircut: a shaggy mess, but so reminiscent of the one Brian was particularly fond of, the one he’d been cajoling his recent project into these last few months. Something about the lad reminded him of all the ted attitude John projected, only with none of the confidence. He'd always thought the pit would have found itself an easy home in Hamburg. Still, Brian couldn’t imagine the man he was looking at with the rest of the red light district prostitutes, nor could he imagine him amongst most of the Liverpudlian bands that cycled through in a desperate attempt to launch their careers beyond their tiny island home.
He had to be a newcomer, Brian decided. The lad was scarcely talking to the men who came up to him, and he seemed to have made the unfortunate mistake of looking for the most shadowed place to hide, backing himself into a literal corner.
In a nicer world, this would have been when Brian stood up and pushed leering men away, but Brian was no hero. Instead, he found himself lurching over misplaced feet, ambling over to the corner to really get a look, see what all the fuss was about.
In this close-up, Brian could ignore any awkward posture to get a better look at the boy's face. And he truly was beautiful, with high cheekbones and thick hair. The lighting was too dark to make out the color of his eyes, but Brian was drunk enough to forget about personal space, and he could see long bottom lashes when he leaned in, which made up for the lighting's transgression.
“Are you new here?” The lad gave a slight nod, saying nothing. “Mmm. Wass yer name?” Brian slurred. It was a stupid question – no one here gave out names – but he’d never been particularly good at talking to the men he paid for anyway.
Except, the lad answered him, “George,” seemingly honest and so quietly. He was clearly trying and failing to feign bored disinterest. After that, Brian's attempts at small talk were quickly shut down, though he didn’t particularly mind.
“How long have you been… working?” He’d ask, and George wouldn’t answer.
“Is this your first time, or do you go around different clubs?” and George would only nod, though Brian didn't know which part of the question he was answering.
The lad may not have been able to hide his nervousness, but he was otherwise a brick wall. In fact, Brian thought that he seemed absent from even his own body, let alone this dreary attempt at conversation. The way he held himself wasn’t natural, but in this state of mind, Brian thought he looked like a porcelain doll; the corner his glass casing, limbs posed by an inexperienced hobbyist. It was enticing. Brian did his best to forget the name he’d been given. It made things too real, and he rather liked this fragile figure he was imagining. He’d always had a mind for that sort of thing, aesthetics, and so far in life, it had worked in his favor.
Eventually, once Brian was out of banal topics to run through, he asked, “Er… are you here by yourself, or…” He coughed once, intentional. He’d finally found the one question he could no longer pretend was small talk, and Brian’s cheeks flushed from embarrassment. It didn’t matter; the boy knew exactly what he was asking and pointed off to the side where two men were chuckling amongst themselves.
Against his better judgement, Brian clumsily made his way over to them – it seemed he'd put his feet on wrong that day – and steadied himself on the rough wall. One of them – tall, light bouncing off his cranium just enough to reveal almost white blonde hair, looking far more put together than anyone he had seen here before – held himself in such a way Brian could only assume the boy was his charge. Suddenly, Brian was struck with a strange feeling of inadequacy, and it wasn’t just due to the liquor.
The man next to him looked decidedly plain in comparison, stereotypically London chic, though far less severe than his companion. He grinned wide, and reached to give a handshake firmer than even the ones Brian had received while negotiating at Parlophone. Smooth, cold hands, though certainly not clammy. He had hardly any calluses, and when Brian looked down, the man’s nails were perfectly manicured. Skin on skin, Brian’s hands looked blemished in comparison, and he cringed at the bitten bits around his nail beds. He wanted to ask for a do-over, to ask if they could stop and start again so he could gather himself and be the one to lead the conversation, but there was no time.
“Wilson.” The plain man offered his name, and a business card. The lighting was too dim to make anything out properly, but he could just barely see the curve of the first letter being a G or C. The man beside him offered nothing, but Brian got the feeling he was there to observe rather than be a participant. “I saw you talking to one of our lovely lads,” he continued. “Harris over there’s becoming pretty popular.” Harris wasn’t the name the boy had offered, but Brian paid no mind to that. Who else could he have possibly been referring to?
“I don’t usually do this,” he admitted, at least having the good sense not to give his name. Best not to leave a trail, paper or otherwise, that could trace him back here. There was something about Wilson, however, that made Brian want to confess his wrongdoings. Perhaps it was his normalcy. The man beside him was too reminiscent of the headmasters Brian remembered butting heads with before being kicked off to the next – definitely more costly – school his parents could find. Wilson could have been one of his upperclassmen. His face split into a familiar boyish grin.
“I’m sure you don’t . Well, we’d be happy to be your first time. Certainly raise your standards in the future.”
“Of course you will,” Brian deadpanned. Wilson only continued to smile with that boyish grin.
“It’s how we keep our customers. Won’t find better service anywhere else.” Considering the lad’s standoffish nature, Brian didn't particularly believe him. His mind was elsewhere, though. He simply could not be considered a customer, and he had to fight the urge to push back and assert his dominance.
“I don’t know what to expect from your… services.”
“Oh, we’d be happy to walk you through all we offer, though our boys should, of course, know what is and isn’t allowed.”
“There’s restrictions?” Why this mattered, Brian couldn’t have said. It wasn’t as if he was planning for anything crazy. He’d barely decided whether he was buying at all.
“Of course there are,” though Wilson’s tone implied that wasn’t the whole truth. “We’re not animals. We only want the best for our boys.”
Brian swallowed. He really was doing this, then. “I don’t think a run-through will be necessary. How –” he’d blame the drink on his bumbling speech later “- How much?”
𖤓
The sum of money Brian paid was one he would surely regret in the morning. Even inebriated, he could feel his ears and cheeks gone red with embarrassment, and a deep pain in his wallet. When the pimp, Wilson, had dragged the lad over, Brian could scarcely look him in the eye. The boy himself looked equally as reluctant. As they made their way out of the pit, they both kept their heads low.
The night air was muggy, and Brian felt decidedly inhuman as he ushered the boy to his car. His skin felt like an ill-fitting suit, and he had the urge to tug at it as if he might loosen a tucked-too-tight shirt. He spent too much time in his head, and by the time he thought to open the door for the boy, he was already sitting inside.
The car ride was marginally less awkward than Brian had expected. The engine's rumbling served as just enough background noise to cut through any tense silence, and he even felt brave enough to turn on the radio to a play he’d hoped neither would care about.
“Secondly, I know I will be seated next to Mary Farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband – most unpleasant!” The radio taunted Brian. Well. Flirting with your own husband was certainly more acceptable than what Brian was doing.
Questions went round and round in his head. Just what were you supposed to do when taking home a rent boy? George – he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t have a name, but couldn’t bring himself to use the one Wilson had offered either, feeling as though it would be treating him like a dog – had been unreceptive to all small talk so far. Still, Brian couldn’t be sure if that was due to the pit swallowing every social normalcy within it. He didn’t bother testing that theory.
The route to Childwall went through a run-down suburb, Speke, which Brian knew Paul had lived in for a very short while. Most of Liverpool was run-down, admittedly, but Brian always felt uncomfortable when confronted with it in any intimate way. It was one thing to pass through the rows of two-up-two-downs and imagine who might live inside. To know someone who’d lived in one, had played in the war’s left behind craters of the neighborhood, was something else entirely. Any acknowledgement of his own comfortable life made Brian deeply embarrassed, especially on nights like these. What did he know, going to such dark places, going out of his way to find trouble, pretending he hadn’t grown up in relative luxury? He wondered when would be a good time to call Paul, soothe his guilt, and say Hey! He wasn’t too middle-class to only see his boys as a potential way to make money.
So stuck in his mind, he couldn’t even pretend to notice George’s discomfort. If he’d taken even a moment to look beyond his own nose, he’d have seen how the poor lad shrank into himself, attempting to make his skimpy clothing hide as much skin as possible. The constant thumping of his foot, rocking the car with its force, was easily discarded by Brian as uneven roads, and George made no noise to disrupt his thoughts. They were both glad to see the council housing slowly give way to Childwall's larger detached and terraced houses. Pulling up to Queens Drive was a kindness. If their detour through Speke had left both their necks and ears pink, well, neither of them was paying enough attention to the other to notice.
Parking, however, brought forth new challenges. Switching off the new car felt like a herculean task. Without the background humming of the engine or exaggerated chatter of the radio, the atmosphere took on a physical darkness, pressing upon Brian’s chest until he was nearly suffocated.
The strange situation compelled him to chivalry he wouldn’t usually afford any typical hookup. He took a moment to compose himself, taking in a deep breath, and plastered on a smile. He turned to George, but the stilted, redundant announcement of their arrival quickly died on his lips. George was still stubbornly facing away, looking out the window. Brian could see how tension had gathered in his shoulders, making the already loose outfit’s attempt at sleeves fall further down his arms. His refusal to engage was maddening, but more than anything else, it was confusing. Brian couldn’t get a read on whether George’s posture came from anxiety or anger, and Brian had always thought the appeal of sex workers was lavishing their customers to make them feel less alone. How could someone so disinterested be so popular so fast, enough to justify the ludicrous amount Brian had paid? Perhaps that was the appeal, an uncomfortable thought that Brian quickly shook from his mind.
No matter. Just because George had no manners didn’t mean Brian would show his own lack of them.
Chivalry was, in fact, relatively easy to fake. Brian had already made his way to the other side of the car and opened the door before George had even stirred.
“Why don’t I take you on a tour?” Brian forced as much professionalism into his voice as possible, and seemingly worked in capturing George’s attention. He quickly sprang into action, tripping over himself as he stumbled out of the car, not what Brian thought of when he imagined escort professionalism. While steadying himself, George grabbed onto Brian’s chest. He wondered if that was part of the act, a way to make the patron feel more like a man, or maybe just a way to establish some physical contact. “Steady now,” Brian said, feeling more like he was soothing a child than a man he planned to sleep with. Placing a careful hand on George’s shoulder, he began guiding him towards the front door, dutifully ignoring the noises of apprehension he could hear. If he listened too hard, he’d have had to contend with them sounding like a wounded dog.
“This is the foyer,” Brian said, and urged George to kick off his shoes. “I’ll take you through the sitting room and kitchen, and then maybe the bedroom?” As if George was going to answer his question with any struggle. He spent a long time explaining the expensive sofa and coffee table, rattling off specs about the television he only knew from his own time in the family furniture store. “The paintings here are actually originals. Here, you can see how they’re signed; my father collects them.” The fact that the artists were local unknowns didn’t matter. George took everything in with the dutiful interest he’d had all night, which is to say none at all. In turn, Brian pretended not to notice, instead moving on to the kitchen, where he began to go into even more detail.
After every piece of furniture had been explained thoroughly, he moved on to childhood stories. “My mother used to make a roast every Tuesday,” he explained, “No one else loved it like I did, but Clive got his favorite on Thursdays.” And so he rambled on. One time his dad nearly wacked the nanny for swatting him, and another time, he got stuck in a mud puddle after a particularly rainy day, talking like George was any normal guest. It became increasingly clear that Brian was stalling, buying time until he had to do the inevitable, but he couldn’t help it. Only after he’d offered George a glass of water, a sip of wine, any of the leftovers he could find in the fridge, and anything sweet he saw in the pantry, did he finally rock on the balls of his feet, mumbling, “Well, that’s everything then.”
Every movement George made toward the stairs was jerky. Brian was once again struck by how unlike his mental image of a prostitute was reflected on George. He felt more like he was frog-marching someone to the stand than preparing for intimacy.
Brian’s bedroom was the first one in the hall, thankfully, cutting the torturous ascent short. Just a few hours ago, Brian had been screaming with his brother over his “lifestyle.” Now he’d brought said lifestyle, a whole bloke, into the family home. He ensured that all the curtains were tightly drawn, the door locked; anything to stall for more time. When he finally gave up on prolonging this anymore and turned to George, he was met with a nude body. The clothes he’d been wearing were already revealing, but Brian hadn’t realized how much had been left to the imagination until nothing was.
Brian blinked once, twice, while George stared through him, clearly expecting him to take charge. Finally, when it became apparent Brian wasn’t going to do anything, George asked, “How do you want me?” as if it was a normal conversation, asking how someone who’s bought you wanted you posed. Except that’s precisely what had happened.
Something like fear was building in Brian. All that nervous, frenetic energy from before came back full force. George was still staring through Brian, eyes all unfocused and glossy. He didn’t even need to pay attention to Brian to see all the ugliness inside him, he realized with growing horror. Brian tried to come up with a position, a pose, a way to get out of this horrible mess he’d created. Finally, after an awful eternity, Brian said,
“I don’t.”
That made George, just seconds ago nearly wall-eyed, focus somewhat, so that he only stared at Brian instead of through him.
“You don’t want me?” A tinge of hurt had woven itself into his voice.
“No,” Brian confirmed, then immediately cringed. It had to be insulting to tell someone whose work relied on his looks that you didn’t want him. George didn’t look offended, though, only insecure.
“Oh,” he deadpanned, already building up that wall of indifference that made him seem so far away and dazed. Again, he stood there, that porcelain doll abandoned by his collector, caught halfway between poses. A recent favorite now lost amongst the shelves, bought and forgotten just like all the other toys Brian had lost throughout his life. At least this one was made of stronger material; Brian hadn’t managed to rip one of his limbs off yet.
“You should get dressed.” Brian used the most commanding voice he could, the one reserved for greedy venues and difficult record deals, professional but firm, hopefully establishing himself as the one on higher ground. George followed his command without question. The outfit, now tangled in a clot Brian couldn’t even begin to try to parse, caused George great difficulty. There was nothing sexy about him dressing up. It made Brian feel guilty, which in turn made anger stir around in his gut.
George was just a rent boy, after all, someone who was surely used to treatment far worse than Brian’s harsh commands. As he stumbled and fell down grace’s steps, the porcelain doll image began to shatter, giving way to the realization that Brian had been delusional this whole time. George wasn’t a beautiful doll to be handled delicately; he was a used car, and Brian was only giving him a test run. He was sure that if he’d asked, Wilson would greatly underestimate how much mileage George had taken on so far. In fact, he likely already had in some way. George probably wasn’t even that green.
The way he struggled with the not-quite-lingerie was childish, and Brian couldn’t help but feel a bit paternal. He reminded himself once again that George was just a rent boy, a beater. Those sorts of feelings were reserved for his boys; shiny and new Ford Anglias like Bond drove around, with much cleaner interiors despite all their Hamburg debauchery.
Finally dressed, George turned to make his way to the door, but Brian stopped him in his tracks.
“I’m not taking you back tonight.” He absolutely refused to. Brian wasn’t a dog, and he hadn’t even gotten his mouth on this chew toy. He couldn’t go back with his tail between his legs now . Nothing would be more embarrassing than to take him back early. At least in the morning he could pretend to have gotten what he’d paid for.
George nodded. He seemed okay enough with the information, or at least distant enough not to truly care. The only problem now was that Brian didn’t know what to do with him. George was just too dirty; physically and spiritually, if Brian were inclined to believe that sort of thing. He couldn’t simply be dropped off in one of the guest bedrooms, which left only one option.
“You’ll stay with me tonight –” he cut George off before he could ask “– Not in that way. Just…” He struggled to find the appropriate words, eventually settling on, “Just. Go there, by the window. I always sleep on the other side.”
There was something deceivingly familial about them turning in. Brian hadn’t ever truly allowed himself to want domesticity like that. He could easily imagine George lying next to him every night with a smoke or a book, so long as he ignored the way George clearly expected to be jumped at any moment. The apparent lack of trust George had for Brian angered him. He would never hurt a beautiful lad like this one; one that, with better luck, would have fit right in with his boys. He was better than those pimps, and Brian was nothing like the other men the pit had taken hostage. How could George think he was anything like them? Besides that, George could only ever have been an affair partner, never a wife.
Despite the strange circumstances, the liquor still running through Brian’s veins made sleep come easily and made it equally difficult to wake up. The morning felt crusty, eyes glued shut with sickness. Slowly, because these things tended to creep up on you until you hardly remembered a time when they weren’t there, that hole that had culminated in last night’s mistakes began opening up in Brian again as stresses and expectations piled on. The scabs he’d left so long were picked at just as they should have been leaving a shiny pink scar. When he sat up, it felt like the scab was tearing open, all of last night's mistakes oozing sluggishly down to stain the sheets below him. One very large stain was right next to him, weighing down his bed.
The curtains had loosened in the night, and the sunlight streaming in served to spotlight said mistake, which hardly seemed fair. Brian was already aware of last night’s embarrassment. The lord didn’t need to point it out even more.
George was cadaver-stiff, surely having stayed awake the whole night. He shot up as soon as Brian shifted to pull the covers off, rocking unsteadily forth like a jack-in-the-box wound tighter and tighter in the night. Only, no tension released.
Seeing George clearly in the morning was horrifying. He’d been right not to let him in any of the guest bedrooms; grime stuck to his skin and made it a sickly sort of shiny. Makeup smeared around his eyes and cheeks, making the already tight skin look shrink-wrapped around his face. Bags lined his eyes, and besides that, they were red and puffy from lack of sleep. If Brian hadn’t spent the entire night beside him, he’d think George had spent the last few hours crying. Blinking slowly, never fully opening his eyes against the sun and the mess coating his face, George looked hungover more than anything else. It occurred to Brian for the first time that George might not have been sober the night before. It would explain how distant he’d been, though Brian hadn’t smelled any alcohol on him. Then again, last night’s Brian hadn’t been the best judge of character, and it wasn’t as if there weren’t a plethora of drugs that had no immediate pungent smell.
No matter. This morning Brian was a new person, or at least he would be once he brushed his teeth and dressed properly. This morning Brian hadn’t made last night’s mistakes, and he wouldn’t feel guilty about what someone else had done.
He should have been in a hurry, should have been anxious to get George back to whoever he belonged to. This wasn’t the sort of life he led! Brian was professional, clean, and he ensured the lads he ran with were the same. Brian knew he could not clean up George like he had with the Beatles. There was just too much baggage, too much grime. Filth and debauchery surely lived as part of his body. If Brian put in the effort with George that he had with his boys, he’d have ended up peeling off George’s skin instead of scrubbing it. His brain was so filled to the brim with thoughts of George, and Wilson, and the dark pit he was about to go back to in the daylight for the first time ever, he hardly had time to think of his responsibilities. He had a lot of responsibilities.
Only Brian couldn’t help feeling a little bitter. He hadn’t even gotten his money’s worth. The knowledge that it had been his doing that they didn’t sleep together, didn’t matter. The guilt of George’s mere existence in his home only served to sour Brian’s mood even further, infected eyes moving to a sickly stomach. He hadn’t even done anything wrong, he tried to tell himself. All he’d done was offer a warm bed and everything in the fridge – and to pay for it all, no less.
Another issue: George looked so young in the morning light. The smudged makeup was almost endearing, like a kid who had gone through his mother’s kit. Brian nearly made the mistake of asking for his age before quickly deciding against it. The last thing his teetering conscience needed was to find out he’d bought some fucking fifteen year old, and George’s high cheekbones and lack of baby fat were enough for him to pretend he didn’t see the acne dotting his nose and chin.
“Good morning,” Brian contradicted his true thoughts. George wasn’t paying any mind to the crisis happening right next to him, though, instead searching into the open window where a sparse garden lay below. What he was looking for, Brian didn’t think to ask.
Brian reached down to the bottom of the barrel where his conscience lived and found almost nothing but swill. He carefully gathered those final few ounces, bringing them up with cupped hands, and offered George a shower.
“Perhaps you’d like to clean up before I take you back?” It was more of a kindness to Brian himself than to George. He could have easily dumped George back at the pit, or even on some random street, yet here he was, proving his moral worth, still playing the role of a gracious host. “I’d prefer if you didn’t leave here as unkempt as you were last night.”
George whipped around, ignoring the jab at his appearance, to stare at Brian with wide, glittering eyes. He nodded only once, small and timid, but his eyes glittered with what could have been wonder, excitement, or fear. Brian didn’t know which one was the correct answer, and he didn’t care, couldn’t care to ask. His ego decided on all three, which was a far better feeling than the shame that had been chasing him since they got in the car, and had since been climbing up the drain pipe and coming dangerously close.
“I’m afraid it won’t be much exciting. Probably disappointing compared to the – other men you’ve met.”
George’s sharp inhale gave way to the type of treatment he was usually used to. The shame finally caught up to Brian then, and dug its claws in deep. The room wasn’t even anything fancy; just a shower-bath combo, a sink with a small cabinet, and a toilet. It didn’t matter. George looked inside as if Brian had personally hung the moon and offered George his pick of the stars.
“Is that really what you use to wash your hands?” George pointed to a small piece of soap, carved to look like a morning dove. Brian’s mum loved that little sudsy figurine. It had been a fixture in his life since he was a teenager. “Can I touch it?”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” He pointed towards the dish next to it, which contained a worn-down bar of jade-colored soap. “It’s not meant to actually be used.” George looked disappointed, but quickly moved on to other areas.
He grabbed one of the small hand cloths placed decoratively over the decorative bath towels. “I don’t know how to fold these back up,” he confessed, but he’d already destroyed the neat creases in his curiosity.
“I’ll –” Brian rubbed a hand across his forehead. These things were inconveniences at most, but George leaving any sort of mark on his house was precisely what he didn’t want. “Those towels aren’t meant to be used like that. I’ll get you a real one in a second.” George huffed, and when his eyes darted to Brian’s, the incredulity was clear. So many practical items, and none of them were to be used. The excess made Brian’s cheeks go ruddy with embarrassment, but George had already moved on to the shower and overlooked his host’s guilt.
Brian had heard stories of children sharing wash tubs heated by the fireplace, with no plumbing, and certainly no water to waste, especially during the war. It was one of his mother’s favorite arguments whenever he or Clive had been particularly obstinate about things like bathing or washing dishes. Exasperated, she’d tell them, “Why don’t you go down the road to a different family then and stay with them, see what it’s like to bathe after four other people. Clearly there’s no difference, is there?” The way George looked around the room with such wonder, Brian wondered if that’s what George had grown up with, if he’d ever experienced proper plumbing before his current life. Then he pushed that thought away. The implications of how young he might’ve been if that were the case were simply too much. After all, Ringo had grown up in the Dingle and even he’d had indoor plumbing by the time he was a teenager – not that he got much use out of it.
George was quick to strip down while Brian watched with the same lack of shame about his nude body he’d displayed the night before. Every new interaction seemed explicitly made to remind Brian that George sold his body for pay. He was equally quick to step under the showerhead’s scalding spray. Even when the water burned him, he refused to adjust the temperature or step away. Probably scared that Brian might force him out and cut his shower short. Brian left before he could think about it too long. There were other things to do.
Namely, Brian didn’t want George leaving the house in that skimpy outfit from last night. There was a dilemma, though, in that he didn’t want to give up any of his clothing either. After spending some time combing through his smart shirts and trousers, Brian gave up, gave in, and reached to the back of the closet for a cover stuffed full. The thing smelled dusty, and opening it revealed a pile of moth-bitten memories, the pieces he no longer had use for but couldn’t bear to throw away. He skipped past old day clothes for a ratty pair of pajamas that he hadn’t worn in years. It was littered with tears, but it would at least cover more than the strapped nightmare in his hands. Brian considered his options momentarily, tempted to throw the thing out or perhaps keep it with the rest of the hidden garments as souvenirs. Ultimately, he decided against either. It was a selfish desire, and one he knew could have dire consequences for George. After that, he went searching through the linen closet for a matching towel. He eventually decided on a dull pink one, thin from use and full of holes; one with bleach stains from where his mother would lay it down while dying her hair blonde.
George had no problem stripping in front of Brian, so Brian refused to have any problems stepping into the bathroom to drop the clothes and towel off. He did his best to ignore how the steam had made the tiles slick and fogged up the shower while he left them on the counter. Behind the frosted glass, he could see how George’s skin had gone red.
“I want you to put on these bits I’m leaving here,” Brian called, then hurried away from the humidity before George could answer.
It would’ve been too awkward to go back into his bedroom – he thought he might have to change rooms entirely to get away from last night – so he decided to do one more kindness and make breakfast. He hoped George would appreciate it. Brian’s barrel of good deeds was running dry.
𖤓
Brian could easily lose himself making breakfast. It wasn’t that he enjoyed it; domestic tasks had always grated on him. Others looked at his more fey attributes and thought he was only useful in domestic fields, but Brian had never made a good housewife. He had too much energy – the kind that didn’t come from speed like most of his mum’s friends did – and besides that, his ego needed him to be in control. He took pride in the work he did. Long hours debating the lowest of the low for his boys were far more satisfying than dusting or unpacking groceries. So losing himself was less a matter of enjoyment and more of trying so hard not to fail that the world ceased to exist around him.
Coffee was easy to make, but his confidence stopped there. Despite his begrudgingly admitted poor kitchen skills, the urge to impress followed him to the stove. He debated attempting a full English but didn’t particularly want to waste the ingredients. George probably wouldn’t appreciate the effort correctly, either. He settled for beans and toast and, at the last minute, even threw in a few eggs – he could afford to lose those sorts of things.
Brian was so focused on frying up an egg, having already lost two to the skillet he barely knew how to use, that doorbell's shrill trill nearly knocked him over.
Brian’s newest pet project had more than its fair share of blame in his row with Clive. Their original drummer had been thrown out for a better model, something Brian had actually approved of; poor Pete was as talentless as he was pretty. With his disposal, however, came the blow of their bassist dropping out willingly. Stu had never been particularly talented musically – mostly another pretty face if Brian was honest with himself – but his departure left the band scrambling to restructure. Praise the lord above that Paul had been dipped in the musical river Styx as a baby (and thank god they hadn’t yet found his Achilles heel). He’d easily taken up where Stu left off and was somehow a stronger player after only a few weeks. However, between Stu dropping out, Paul switching instruments, and Pete being replaced, Brian had been left with a legal mess to clean up.
Misfortune came in waves. While the band was busy tearing out its own seams and stitching them back together, Brian was left with the dirty work of bargaining with Parlophone. They’d only just released a single, he'd argued, and it was steadily rising up the charts. Surely they were still worth that promised album. He’d have been happy never to let the boys know how close he’d come to losing them everything, but this new tentative agreement came with even more stacks of paperwork and contracts than the first round. Parlophone was about ready to drop them, even if they’d been the ones demanding half the changes, and Brian was nearing his limit. If things continued on much longer, he’d have to begin investing in hair dye to hide all his greys. It had only taken Clive catching onto his stress and latching onto it, “We know damn well why you’re so interested in those boys, and how dare you bring them into our own home,” to catch the spark between them and ignite. However, the instigating reason was lost in a matter of minutes. He’d done his best last night to forget about their scheduled visit to try and parse the new contracts, and apparently had done a great job.
The doorbell continued to ring, loud and headache-inducing, and every time the chime ended, someone pressed it again. Brian briefly considered pretending he wasn’t home, but he was no coward, and whoever was ringing the doorbell so incessantly didn’t seem like they’d stop anytime soon. The car parked out front would give him away anyway. He turned off the hob and made his way to the front door. John ceased his ringing as soon as Brian opened the entrance. He was flanking Paul with Ringo, but Brian could see his cheeky grin over Paul's left shoulder, and noticed with some annoyance John’s lack of grooming.
“You’re early,” Brian attempted to sound pleased.
“Actually, we’re late,” John corrected, seeming all too excited to share this news. “Paul was busy in the bath.”
Paul didn’t look angry that John was throwing him under the bus. In fact, he actually preened as Ringo noted, “at least he’s very clean.” The implied comparison against John’s own state was ignored.
Brian was flailing too much to laugh. “Of course you are,” he scolded, “I’ll forgive you just this once, though. It appears I’ve also lost track of time.” He was slowly getting used to chatting with the boys rather than just observing them, and was relieved that they looked to be taking his scolding as nothing serious. “Well, come in now, there’s certainly no time to waste if all of us are this disordered.” He began ushering them into the house, down the hall, and into the office he was currently “borrowing” from his father. “Now, you wait here. I’ll be right back with coffee.” He didn’t even notice his contradiction.
“You sure you don’t want us to follow so you can give us the grand tour? You’ve only shown each of us a million times already; sure you don’t want to get our collective opinion?” But Brian was too distracted to be embarrassed by John’s snark.
Paul swatted John’s arm, telling him, “Enough with you, be respectful,” but he watched how Brian jumped from topic to topic closely, suspicious. Brian didn’t realize any of this, didn’t see how Paul shifted from foot to foot, adjusted his shirt sleeves, fidgeting in ways he’d learned people didn’t notice. Prim and proper, Paul was; never stirring up trouble, but he was always waiting to sift through its debris.
The three of them were all but pushed into the office, now crowded with a small table and stool Brian was using as his own space, along with his father's intricate desk and plush chair. They looked between each other, curious as to what could possibly be hiding around here. John and Paul were making a silent pact to start snooping through filing cabinets as soon as Brian stepped away, and Ringo nodded along with them, promising he wouldn’t tattle. Brian was ready to slip out and slam the door closed, use one of the many keys he’d learned to keep on his person, and lock them inside, when a voice called out to him:
“Sir?” Brian whipped around, but George wasn’t looking at him. Far more awake than last night, the family home left George in awe. He kept pausing as he walked, taking in the high ceilings and authentic paintings, impressed by them even if they were made by locals. “Are you taking me home soon?” George’s head was still tilted to look at a chandelier of fake crystals hanging down. “I heard someone… You didn’t pay for multiple people. It’s more expensive to…” He kept mumbling, lost in the house’s cheap ostentatiousness, so he was hardly audible.
“Who’s that, Eppy?” John called over Brian’s shoulder. “A secret lover?”
Before Brian could come up with a suitable lie, George ran into him, effectively cutting off both their trains of thought.
He looked so young. With damp, loose hair and a clean face, George was far more boyish than even earlier this morning. His high cheekbones now looked like the result of a too quick growth spurt rather than mature fitness. The makeup from last night had done more than just attempt to make him look sultry; it had hidden deep pock marks from where acne had been picked at, scabbed over, picked at, scabbed over, picked at. Brian couldn’t pretend it any longer. George was a kid . Maybe – he hoped so – an of-age kid, but a kid nonetheless. Was he even twenty?
George paid no mind to Brian’s internal crisis. He was too busy staring at the Beatles before him, completely bewildered. In particular, he seemed focused on Paul, who was equally slack-jawed in return. Brian wished to close his mouth before he could catch flies. He restrained himself and instead looked towards what George was so shaken by. All the color had drained from Paul’s face, and he looked like he’d seen a ghost to match his ghastly appearance. For a moment, neither of them dared to move, or even breathe. It seemed as though they were both prepared to stand there for eternity, until Ringo broke the spell, pressing a warm hand on Paul’s shoulder, comforting, before shoving him gently forward.
Paul walked over through no permission of his own. His prim demeanor was forgotten in favor of Hamburg bedraggledness, and he pushed Brian roughly out of the way, ignoring how he stumbled in surprise. Had he seen Paul so brusque in recent months?
He looked down at this boy, surely a stranger, staring at him unblinkingly. The boy was shorter by a good few centimeters and blinked up at Paul with terrified wonder. Despite the circumstances, Brian finally took note of George’s eye color: rich dark brown. It served to give him the appearance of a wild animal, facing down the barrel of a loaded hunter’s rifle.
Paul must have sensed the boy's fear because he quickly snatched his arm right as he made to turn back down the hallway. He was struggling now, but Paul either wouldn’t or couldn’t care. Brian took a step forward, ready to force the two apart, when Paul, voice hoarse and low, whispered,
“Georgie?”
𖤓
For nearly as long as John had known Paul, “George” had been a fairytale repeated time and time again.
John not-so-fondly remembered the first few weeks after he’d been shown up by Paul’s oh so important ability to tune a guitar – never mind play it upside down. Paul had gone on and on and on about this little George fellow, a year younger than him, but just as talented at guitar, if not more so. And that was a hard thing to get Paul to admit, nearly impossible actually, so John had immediately been put off by the idea of being shown up again. Paul insisted, though, that John simply had to meet him, that he’d be a vital addition to the Quarrymen, that he could hang with the best of them despite still learning his letters.
John hadn’t wanted some kid in his band, of course. Paul was bad enough, and quite a few members had already jumped ship to avoid a glorified babysitting gig. It wasn’t going to happen. John had already decided it before Paul had ever finished his first pitch, and John was just as much a stubborn bastard as Paul. They were determined to wear each other down, but John knew he would win. He refused to even meet baby Georgie, mainly because it was Not On, though a small part of himself he refused to acknowledge couldn’t take the idea of being shown up by a kid again. Not that he’d ever let that happen, but the risk wasn’t worth it.
John had to keep Paul humble. He’d already stomped all over the Quarrymen, leaving behind his leather oxfords’ footprints as a mark. If he let George in, that would just give Paul the go-ahead to push further and further, until even John was pushed out of his own bloody band. Make no mistake about ole’ how ole' JimMac gilded him, Paul was just as rough as the rest.
Besides, John liked the way Paul begged and begged, while he tugged the lure further and further. Sorry, little fish! He could swim round the Quarry forever, but John’s bait box was full of rubber.
After only a few weeks, it appeared that John had won. Paul stopped bringing George up so much until, eventually, he’d ceased talking about him at all. The victory was bitter on John’s tongue. As the topic of George left their meetings, so it seemed had Paul’s mind.
For a while a hazy sort of distraction followed John everywhere. Not just Paul, though he was surely the worst of it. While Paul became quiet and reserved, John’s classmates turned loud and dropped all pretense of learning. Behind flat palms they whispered, staring knowingly at one another, but surely not about John, though he liked to think himself important enough to draw the entire school’s attention, because they only shut up sometimes when he was in their vicinity, and there was always some other classmate present to explain it away. It was someone from his grade, whom he often saw putting up flyers on all of the school’s cork boards, but John hadn’t thought to see just what was being advertised.
Then, one day, Paul walked into practice more than just distracted and quiet. He’d taken on a sickly pallor, and John wondered how he’d even made it over. It looked like he’d been jerked about on the way to Mendips, as if someone else had taken control of his body. From the very beginning, John thought Paul might as well have stayed home, because he was absolutely useless in practice, worse than abysmal. Whoever had taken over Paul’s body wasn’t a very good puppeteer, or maybe Paul’s fingers hadn’t been carved to articulate individually. His playing was worse than when he’d frozen at his first show and threatened to make them a laughing stock. Finally, John’d had enough.
“There’s no point today,” John had announced, and steamrolled ahead before anyone could protest. “And don’t tou act like you lot are actually doing anything.”
A few had grumbled, the ones who promised to be the next round to leave after Paul’s intervention, but John refused to dignify their disgruntled moaning. He’d shoved them off, with their shoddy instruments, and made sure that Paul was the very last in line. Before he could follow after Pete, John gripped his arm to turn him around, corralling him against the staircase.
“No,” John commanded. “Your da’ getting on your back again? Thought we’d had this conversation.” He folded his arms over each other, standing just a step above Paul to make himself loom larger, hopefully even larger than Jim’s expectations.
Then John had stepped into Paul’s space, searching for some sort of tell, looking for where Jim had hidden the bruise. Paul was cow-eyed, but his expression was hollow. He may as well have had a captive bolt fracturing his skull for all the broken wires his head seemed to have. John grabbed hold of Paul’s face, one palm on each cheek, and pressed just enough for his eyes to focus back in.
“Haven’t seen George in a bit,” Paul swallowed, voice sounding like he’d gargled glass.
“Christ,” John tsked. “Thought you’d been over him by now.” Some spark of anger lit in Paul’s eyes.
“I’ve known him longer than you, John, can’t just–” Paul cut himself off with a shake of his head, and took a shuddering breath in. “Not what I meant.” They couldn’t continue the conversation like this. Paul’s reluctance to share information was a dull ache building behind John’s eyes, and they were too out in the open. Mimi could come berating them at any moment, and John knew if he didn’t get this information out of Paul now, it would be buried down with every other hurt in his life.
John pulled them back and up the stairs until Paul finally got a hold of himself, walking in a way that was just a bit too forced to be his usual casual confidence.
“Well?” John demanded once he’d locked his bedroom door. “Can’t really be this lost just because you’re in a spat with baby Georgie, eh?” Paul’s breath stuttered, as though the thought was too much to bear.
“George’s gone .” Paul’s voice took on a desperate, shaky quality, hushed whispers even though they were alone, and John feared he might start crying any moment. “They don’t know where he’s gone off to.” And then the floodgates opened.
“He – you know, he’s – I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I’d just thought he must be sick or something, you know? It’s not as if his parents ever made him go if he had even a headache, and that’s what they were saying anyway, whenever I’d come round.
“But I got tired of it, and teachers were handing off his homework – I had a whole giant packet, so I’d gone to deliver it. Thought Mrs. Harrison would be happy to have George not falling behind, and I thought maybe I’d get to see him for a bit, or we could have tea… His parents weren’t there, though?” Paul said it more like a question. He took in a deep gulping breath, body shuddering, “His brother opened the door, and he looked right awful. And he said… He said he didn’t know where George was. None of them did.”
Paul continued to babble about it all. He regaled stories of search parties John had never heard about, and missing persons flyers, answering what that bloke at school was always pasting everywhere, and sympathetic police who were too kind to say that they didn’t care, “Is there anything that might have made him a target? Any special needs or… predispositions?” Meaning, is there anything we can use to justify not wasting the paperwork for a case we don’t intend to solve? As Paul rambled, John’s mind went elsewhere. He’d heard stories of Americans putting their missing kids on milk cartons, and wondered if George would have been one of them. He tried to imagine it, a black and white photo of this smirking lad Paul had described, pasted onto the glass bottles that came every Monday. The sticker would disintegrate when Mimi washed it, leaving only the film of George after the bottle dried.
Was that all that George would become? A gummy mess that stuck to those around him? He’d already left his mark on Paul, who was sniffling and snorting in an effort not to cry while he talked more about this heroic boy whose author had forgotten to finish his most recent issue.
John’s answer, of course, was to get drunk. He plied Paul full of alcohol until he actually did cry, and then filled his cup more until he fell into a fitful, flimsy sort of sleep. John lay down on the ground next to him that night, just staring at Paul’s puffy face, sure that George was about to enter his life without having ever met him.
Over time, John’s prediction came true. George had stuck to him as well, and try as he may, John never managed to peel the soggy paper remnants of him off. In fact, John realized one day that the glue had worked its way under his fingernails, and he couldn’t figure out how to wash him off.
From then on, George followed John around wherever he went. There he was, stepping out of shadowed corners while John took Cyn on dates, following them and giving commentary at all the scenes Cyn hated and John loved. He always agreed with John. Each of John’s favorite pubs, records, and docks became George’s favorite as well.
He now knew that the kid posting flyers around Secondary was George’s brother, Peter, and watched as he failed to pay attention in Maths, English, Art… John hadn’t known just how connected he was to George until he learned how many classes he shared with Peter. They’d only been one step removed, even before meeting Paul.
Paul told John there had been an announcement at the Institute about George and, sure enough, his own headmaster gathered the school together only a few days later for their own declaration of George’s disappearance. “Please tell the local police if you find anyone matching this description…” John learned all about George’s weight and height. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin; these characteristics meant little to him. Just about every other lad in the Pool matched George’s key physical characteristics. If they genuinely cared about more than paying lip service, the local station would be bogged down catching dozens of school boys whose parents didn’t worry about whether he’d make it home for dinner. Paul was the only one who told John about the Real George, all the things that made him up as a person.
And what a fantastical portrait Paul painted, because he was always, always talking about him.
He talked during practice, “I just learned – but George probably already knows this chord. He’d talked to that Frank fella already, biked about an hour just to meet him. Here, anyways, though, I’ve just learned it, I’ll show…”
He talked at the local chippy, “You know, George’s family always sends him off with some extra pocket money. He does a paper route, of course, but his dad always slips a little extra in anyway, so we could always buy one of the big baskets. Real generous, they are, ‘specially ‘cause they don’t have so much. I think if you and I go halves we could get a basket as well…”
He talked when John snuck him into his favorite pub, “George started smoking before I knew him, you know, like ten, or nine even. His sister sent him a pack of Marlboros once since she’s off married to some bloke in the States. And his family started him on the whiskey soon after. Don’t think they ever had this brand though, really Irish his mum is…”
And on and on and on. George became a mythical figure to John, more magical creature than human. More ghost. He remained perplexingly childish and empowered, given far more freedoms than John’d had at any age, freedoms handed to him without thought while John had to pry them from Mimi’s stiff, withered fingers or just go behind her back; and apparently he knew how to use them. Stories of late nights well beyond curfew, heroic parents punching teachers, outfits that would’ve sent Mimi into a fit, tearing her hair out, all spilled out of Paul like water in a cracked jar.
Of course, Paul had only known George for a few years himself. There were only so many stories he could give, but Paul repeated them over and over as though they were gospel, as if George was just as important as the saint he shared a name with. Each time they were spoken, over and over again, they got a little bit bigger. Paul built them up more each time until, eventually, George became his own legend.
Paul was so charming, too, that it didn’t even matter how the stories changed and got more fantastical with every retelling. Ivan, Neil, even Pete and Stu, who didn’t particularly like Paul, all let him tell this or that story just one more time, “ No, Paul, I don’t think you told us about the time he stole a whole copy of After School Session from that old dock worker. Just how did he get himself out of that one?” Lying through their teeth, and John was no better. Paul was just such a good performer that they could almost truly forget previous iterations to make room for the most recent.
The way Paul told it, regaling stories of George, his dedication to music and practiced talent, his attitude, his propensity to get them in and out of trouble daily, he might as well have been a Greek God. George Harrison, god of guitars and cigarettes and warm family homes, standing up taller than his full head shorter than Paul, right up there with Dionysus and Hestia.
They got older and found gigs at churches, shady restaurants, reluctant family members’ homes, and the Best’s basement venue, all the way to Paris and Hamburg. George was always there. Every dark alleyway and phone booth had the potential for George to step out of hiding and tag along, always trailing behind so he was just out of sight. He was a boy stuck frozen in time, and growing bigger every day. Even as they found Eppy (more like Eppy found them), and signed to Parlophone, and Paul took on more leadership of the band, he still talked about little baby George, as though he was there catching up with everything alongside them. Even as John and Paul surpassed whatever level of skill the apparent child prodigy could have had, Paul continued to talk about what chords and melodies George surely would’ve known – even the originals the two of them had written.
John knew that Paul couldn’t bear the thought of little baby Georgie being gone for real, not the way their mums were.
And so he let Paul talk on and on, as if George had only gone on a trip, that he’d be back soon and be so excited to see all the progress they’d made for themselves, even if this contract was a fragile, tentative thing threatening to break every day.
A contract! Paul’d say George had always wanted a contract. That wasn’t true, John knew. No kid who dreamed of something as simple as being in a band at all had any conception that a contract was something you could want. John certainly hadn’t when he first dreamed up the Quarrymen and he’d first been putting his band together, even as he dreamed up a future of fame and fortune and flashing lights, how he’d get there had always been elusive, foggy. The church fetes he performed certainly never had contracts, except maybe verbal ones ending in a handshake. George’s one single performance with his brother couldn’t have given him dreams of a contract . It didn’t matter, though. George’s ghost had grown up with them, Paul had raised it as his own, and so this older version of George surely would.
All that to say, John was never not aware of George’s existence, but he hadn’t expected said existence to pop up in Eppy’s office either. For all of Paul’s assurances that George was just around the corner, he never brought these things to anyone but John.
When Paul strode up to this kid, jerky and unconfident as he looked, John hadn’t expected him to begin speaking about Ghosts. When he did, John thought Paul must be delusional. He’d seen missing posters of George spread around town in various states: clean, bleeding ink from rain, ripped and crumpled by kids and adults alike who got a kick out of acting as though they were above probably dead kids. Sure, he could see the resemblance somewhat. That didn't mean Paul was right. He still expected that kid frozen in time to be the real George. That’s what George was. A fairytale; a ghost. Ghosts stayed the same as when they had died. Fairytales only adapted, never changed, and Paul had been adapting George to modern times since he was fifteen. The idea that he might have grown up, even if only a bit, was ludicrous.
This kid, this child that Brian for some reason had in his possession, was staring up at Paul with wonder in his eyes. He flinched when Paul touched him as if Paul were made of fire, but didn’t move from his spot. For a moment, they locked in a standstill, neither saying anything, and John noticed just how short the lad was. Well, if this were George, maybe he hadn’t actually grown up that much. It looked quite a bit as though he’d hardly aged past fourteen, but that didn't make sense either. How could he be neither frozen in time, nor the nineteen years he should be?
Finally, the boy ended their staring contest. His voice was flat and timid when he whispered, “Paul?” Unmistakably scouse, the sort of accent Mimi talked down on, just the way Paul had described. A picture was starting to form in John’s mind, slowly. George’s family was working class; he knew this, but he’d never given much thought to what work might mean in George’s case. John’s stomach began to stir around dizzyingly. George was the ghost who’d followed him to the hospital when Cynthia gave birth, who’d made him fearful of what might happen to Julian the moment he first held him. He wasn’t supposed to be the kind of worker John had paid to fuck in Hamburg!
All sense of decorum had left Paul, who was paying no mind to John’s internal crisis. He ignored George’s previous wariness, grabbing him and wrapping him in a suffocating hug.
“I knew you were still- still out there, Hassa. I just knew!” Paul tucked George’s head under his neck as he babbled on. “I knew you’d just gone missing–” He corrected himself as George squirmed at the phrase “--Just gone out. You were always going to come back. God, we’ve always missed you so much.
“Paul,” Ringo called out, and was easily ignored.
“I’ve told everyone all about you, everyone loves you, can’t wait to meet you for real…”
“Paul.”
“...My own words never did you any justice. Lord, but you haven’t had your growth spurt yet. There’s still time, though, son, but don’t you worry.” As if George were fourteen. But he couldn’t be fourteen, because Paul was twenty, and February was in a few months.
“Peter and Harry have missed you– Louise, of course, also, but she’s still in the States, I’m sure you know.” He continued on as if only a week had passed instead of years. “Neil too, even Ivan’s been asking where you went off to…”
“ Paul ,” Ringo’s voice cut through Paul’s ramblings, finally. “Slow it down, son, it’s a lot of information you’re giving him, isn’t it?” Ringo’s deep voice drawled out, rumbling and diplomatic as every politician pretended they were. If John had been able to find his own voice, he would’ve been a lot more blunt.
George hadn’t made a noise throughout Paul’s entire speech, and he continued his silence even as the ramblings were finally over. He wasn’t even hugging Paul, actually, arms limp at his sides, leaning on Paul not like he was seeking contact, but like Paul was a column holding his body. It looked as though he might fall down without the support. Clearly, George was only letting Paul handle him, and with great difficulty at that. His entire body was shaking, and in the new silence of the musty office, John could hear how unsteady his breath was. He wasn’t crying; this was the breathing of someone terrified to do anything wrong.
Ringo’s intervention seemed to act as some sort of permission to George. Ever so carefully, he extracted himself from Paul’s hold. He lifted bony, shockingly skinny arms up to Paul’s chest, slowly pushing him back and away. Had Paul not conceded, it became apparent, George wouldn’t have managed this physical task at all. He refused to look Paul in the eyes, instead turning towards where Brian was attempting to become one with the wallpaper.
“When are we going back?” George’s voice was still timid and shaky, and so, so scouse.
“Where?” Paul asked, frantic.
“‘Velvet Tavern,” George answered, flat, before Brian could wave the question away. John thought it sounded a bit like a faggy Cavern Club. “W– Wilson’ll be expecting us. ‘Fact, he probably has been…” George gave a nervous, stumbling laugh. “You’ve got me for a lot longer than you were supposed to, so, really, you’re probably going to have to pay more…” His voice got quieter the longer he went, until his mumbled murmuring was scarcely comprehensible. The longer he went, the more sickly Brian turned, going from a pale white to a greyish green. George didn’t notice or didn’t care, scarcely aware of how he was signing Brian’s death warrant.
Oh, John could see that Paul was confused by it all, hadn’t yet fit the puzzle pieces together, but John had, and by the grimace on Ringo’s face, he knew what was going on as well. They shared pained looks behind Paul’s back, questioning which one of them would have to tell Paul the dirty business little baby Georgie had gotten himself into.
Thankfully, Ringo took charge, because for all of John’s lack of manners, he couldn’t bear the thought of ruining the fairytale Paul had been writing for half a decade. Good ole’ Ringo, John thought, already slotting in so neatly he’d almost managed to fill the hole both Pete and Stu had left behind.
“I think there’s a bit of confusion going about,” Ringo soothed the tension. “George, was it? I’m sure this– Wilson fella, was it? Will be understanding If Brian’s already got to pay extra. What’s one more hour? I’m sure we’ll leave you plenty of time to… do what it is you have to.” Wilson certainly would mind, John was sure of it by the stricken, confused face George was making.
He started stammering that “that’s not how it works,” and John was no idiot. He knew how prostitutes were treated, had treated them shit himself. He was sure that George was probably trying to figure out just how much trouble he’d be in, but he was also sure that George was screwed no matter what now. It wasn’t as though they could save him. Truly, what would an hour do at this point?
Brian continued to look uncomfortable, like a child being berated even though he’d been mostly ignored up to this point. And he should be berated, John thought, his guilt was more than reasonable. A prostitute, really? And one so young. George looked like a teenager. In fact, he was a teenager, still a few months shy of twenty.
Ringo had been talking a while now, and continued on even as George submitted. Slowly George began to wear down, and sank down into one of the crowded office’s chairs, though no tension had left his rigid body. Paul quickly followed, sitting next to George even though the overstuffed chair wasn’t really meant for two people. George pressed himself as far into the right side and leaned onto George as much as possible. He was making up for George’s refusal to return the hug, it seemed, acting purely in his own self-interest. John assumed he must be showing great restraint not to pull Georg entirely into his lap; it sure looked as though he believed George would disappear at a moment’s notice.
“I’ll be right back,” Brian said to no one, then quickly scurried off. Silence hung heavy in the air. Paul began chewing on his thumbnail, sitting sideways to face George, while George looked down. His hands fluttered in his lap.
There was no joke John could make about the situation. No more soothing words by Ringo towards a lad he’d known for mere minutes. At least George wasn’t flinching away from Paul, but then, John was sure he’d long since gotten used to people invading his space – lord, invading his body . If anything, Paul’s restraint might’ve been a welcome reprieve.
Eventually Brian came back, balancing plates in one hand and white knuckling a collection of mugs in the other. He passed a pair off to each of them, commanding a short “eat, tuck in” before taking a bite himself and immediately grimacing. Cold eggs and coffee would do that to anyone except, apparently Ringo, who would eat any variation of the few foods his stomach could stand, and George, who looked like he couldn’t deny food if you put cyanide in it in front of him. Paul easily tipped his own plate on George’s, and watched with concern as he wolfed down the jello-textured eggs and stale, slimy with buttered toast.
“Erm… So.” Paul started while George stole his cup of coffee. “Where’ve– Where’d you gone off to, Hassa?” George flinched at the nickname, setting his mug aside after cold coffee spilled over the rim and onto his shirt. His eyes fell to the empty stack of plates in his lap, uncomfortable, but he didn’t stutter.
“Been with Wilson,” George confessed, like Paul would know who that was. Paul’s nail made its way back to his mouth.
“Don’t think I’ve heard that name.”
“You have,” George said and shut his mouth with a loud click.
“No, no, I’ve never met a Wilson before.” Paul paused, then corrected, “At least, not anyone important.”
“Don’t suppose you would,” George mumbled. The tone in his voice betrayed his cards, though, that he’d expected some sort of reaction. He didn’t explain it further.
“Really, though, Hassa. You just disappeared one day. 'First I thought you were sick, but then your parents–”
“Fuck’s sake, Paul!” John snapped. “What do you think a place called The Velour Tavern?” He spoke over George’s correction. “Fucking faggy name like that, what do you think he’s here for? Just Brian’s nineteen-year-old friend? Where do you think people like him go to get their cocks wet?”
Brian bristled. “It’s only a pub–”
“Only a pub!” He spat venom towards Paul and Brian, disgusted at the both of them. “What pubs around here let you buy a prossie with your whiskey? This isn’t Hamburg, and you’d be too much of a ninny to go there anyway.
Brian slumped against a filing cabinet, where each drawer sprouted overcrowded teeth of crumpled manila folders. He looked defeated, as though he hoped one of the cabinet’s mouths would open up and snatch him whole.
George turned his head between the four men around him: shameful Brian, delusional Paul, confused Ringo, and snarling John. He stood up, jitters giving away the false attempt at confidence, and turned to Brian.
“Sir?” Anxiety laced his voice. “We should really go back. Now.” Paul immediately began stammering, spinning out.
“You can’t leave now!” But George was flat enough, and spooked enough to hold firm.
“We really have to. It doesn’t matter how much you,” he pointed at Brian’s chest, “pay now.” He took in a shaky breath, the implication of promised pain promising to stain the rest of the day. He looked so tired, so unhappy, so scared and so fucking young . John tried to comfort himself, saying this was the legend Paul had told him so much about. He’ll be fine, he told himself, it’s not my problem to help.
“If you’re really so insistent on talking to him, why don’t you buy him for a night, Paulie?” Though going for calm and cleverness, he couldn’t stop poison from dripping down his chin. “How much do you cost to catch up with an old friend?” Snark slipped past John’s lips with every word. No one laughed, turning away from him in unison. Paul looked humiliated. George looked as though he might be sick.
Brian sucked in air between his teeth. “We should probably hold off on the contract details for another day. Freda will call about setting up another meeting for later this week.” He pushed himself away from the cabinet and out of the boundaries of its toothy mouths. “I’ll go grab my keys. George, you’ll follow me.” George trailed behind Brian like a ghost. All this time, and John thought George had only been haunting Paul.