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“So... whose idea was the tour?”
The interviewer glanced between the four men in front of her. It was a cosy, casual set-up, all honeyed lamplight spilling soft over them, caught in Roy’s sunglasses like sunlight trapped in a developed polaroid. Indoor plants flanked the sofa they were squeezed onto; Tom lounged on the armrest, sprawling with a lazy confidence, his arm stretched along the back and brushing Jeff’s curls.
George, without hesitation, answered first, a wry smile playing on his lips.
“Not mine.”
That drew a ripple of laughter. Tom’s grin widened, sly and conspiratorial, as if he was about to let the interviewer in on a private joke.
“Yeah, that’s why we told him it was just a long holiday with guitars,” he said. George caught the amused twitch at the corner of Roy’s mouth. “By the time he’d realised, we’d already booked the buses.”
George’s lips parted in mock-protest, but Jeff crossed his arms and chuckled before he could speak. “I think it was more of a group decision,” he said, nudging George in the ribs with his elbow. “We all fancied playing these songs in front of people.”
The interviewer nodded, her eyes sweeping across them again, expression professional but lit with genuine curiosity. “And will it just be Wilburys songs, or can fans expect hits from your individual careers?”
George tilted his head with an ease that belied his seriousness. “Don’t expect any Beatles songs. Can you imagine Bob Dylan singing ‘Penny Lane’?”
He let the question hang, lips curling into a smile. The air shifted, as if the moment itself was being dangled off the side of a cliff.
“Not that I’d mind hearing him do ‘Something’.”
Jeff stifled a laugh. Roy’s blink was slow behind those tinted lenses, his smile a small, secret thing. They exchanged a look around George, slotted between them, unaware.
“Speaking of Dylan, why isn’t he here today?”
“He’s allergic to interviews,” Tom deadpanned, the sofa rustling beneath him as he shifted on the armrest, each motion slow and feline. “Or maybe it’s the coffee here. We didn’t ask.”
George's grin deepened and he leaned forwards, his voice warmer now. “You know Bob. Turns up when he feels like it. And sometimes when you wish he wouldn’t.”
Jeff glanced sideways at Roy again; Roy's brows lifted, but George didn’t notice. He was still smiling, oblivious to the unmistakable affection laced through his voice. Something flickered in his eyes—bright enough to pass through them all.
For a moment, no one spoke. The interviewer’s pen hovered a beat too long above her notepad, then touched down again with a soft scratch. Tom tapped his heel against the sofa’s leg, slow and deliberate, as if marking time.
“So, anyway,” Jeff cut in, steering the conversation back on course. “The tour starts in June...”
The interviewer’s smile returned, her pen moving more steadily now. The banter flowed on, easy and practiced, but George leaned back against the cushions, gaze drifting somewhere past the warm pool of lamplight.
--
A few weeks later, that interview felt like miles away, and the first tour dates began to loom overhead like clouds rolling in.
Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the half-drawn blinds in Bob’s kitchen, spilling in slanted lines across the tiles and reflecting in the metal of the sink. Bob squinted his eyes against it, fingers curled around his mug of coffee—probably cold by now.
“Okay,” Jeff said to Roy, both opposite him, pen scratching against paper, “he told me that he can book a block of rooms in this hotel here,” he tapped the words with the end of his pen, “or this one here. Private rooms won’t be a problem.”
Roy nodded thoughtfully. “Alright,” he replied, then turned to Bob. “Is that okay with you, Bob?”
Bob blinked, shifting in his chair. The sun in his eyes made everything feel too bright, too much, Roy’s words lagging half a beat behind in his mind.
He let his gaze drift past them, picturing the last hotel rooms he’d been in on the road. King-sized beds, cigarette smoke unfurling over clean linen sheets. But, however comfortable, it was still too many nights spent beside an empty, cold spot. Too many nights spent in a bed that was too big for one person.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought drifted in. George’s face, his voice, the silence that sat easy between them. He didn’t chase it, just let it pass like water trickling through a narrow brook—glittering between jagged rocks, hinting at something larger downstream.
His stomach twisted like he’d just trodden on those sharp rocks barefoot. Fingers tightening around the mug, he stared into it, watching the liquid ripple gently as the table moved with Jeff’s scrawl. He could feel Roy’s eyes on him, patient, but quietly expectant.
Bob shrugged and dipped his head. His curls fell into his eyes, shielding them from the sunlight. “Whatever’s easiest,” he muttered after a beat.
The clock ticked steadily, stretching the silence like a cruel metronome. Bob felt it pressing in, an uninvited warmth creeping up his spine.
Then the door flung open, thudding against the bean bag stopper. George and Tom’s voices spilled in, making the room seem suddenly smaller, like they had whisked the outside world in with them. They were chatting to each other, laughing between them as chair legs scraped against the floorboards, each sinking into a seat beside Bob. Bob kept his gaze fixed on his mug, unwilling to meet theirs.
“What are we talking about?” Tom asked, resting his head in his hand, elbow propped on the table.
“Jeff’s going over hotel arrangements,” Roy replied with a soft smile.
Jeff set his pen down and turned the paper around, showing the names of some hotels, with an arrow that pointed to ‘private rooms’ scribbled above them. “We were just asking Bob what he thinks,” he said with a nod.
Tom furrowed his brows, glancing over at George, then back at Bob. “I thought those two were supposed to share a room.”
Bob looked up then, meeting George’s gaze. The light caught in George’s eyes, gilding them with a chatoyancy reserved only for quartz. Bob swallowed, lips parting as if to speak—but no words came, and George’s eyes only lingered a beat before turning towards the others.
“It’s up to Bob,” George said, a grin tugging at his lips.
All four pairs of eyes were on him now, and he felt the heat rise behind his neck. He glanced around, lingering on George’s face and the way it creased with that easy smile—soft and fleeting, like the afternoon breeze whispering through the grass outside.
He shrugged again, brushing the hair from his face as he looked away. “Yeah...” he muttered, voice low, almost reluctant. “That’s fine.”
George’s smile widened, and Bob felt it bloom across his skin, leaving him feeling exposed. But he mirrored his expression nonetheless, lips twitching with his own, small smile.
--
“We’ve gotta...” George huffed, almost tripping on the cables that snaked across the floor. “We’ve gotta set things up.”
His back hit the wall. His shoulder knocked against the faintly buzzing amps stacked in the corner. Bob’s breath was warm against his neck, lips sending vibrations through him, each syllable a small electric shock.
“In a second,” he muttered.
The words burned across George’s skin, so hot they almost blistered. He hummed a protest—but it died when Bob’s mouth met his, swallowing it down as if he knew it would only have been for his ears anyway. The faint smell of old wood and cigarette ash filled the room, but it meant nothing to George; Bob’s presence invaded every sense, dizzying and all-encompassing.
Even if he knew they shouldn’t—they should be rehearsing for the tour—George couldn’t help but give in, snaking his hand around to slip into Bob’s back pocket, pulling him closer until their hips met.
Bob smiled against him, cheeks dimpling as their noses knocked. His fingers grabbed at George’s waist, clutching the fabric of his jacket like he was trying to steady himself. The knuckles of his other hand brushed against George’s cheek, sweeping some hair from his face. The taste of stale coffee clung to Bob’s mouth, amps humming like an impatient crowd.
George’s hips jerked towards the pressure, unthinking, as Bob’s thigh wedged between his like it had been waiting there all along. He tipped his head back, eyes fluttering shut, as kisses mapped the angle of his jaw—open, searching, unhurried in the way that made his knees give. Bob pressed harder, and the air left George in a quiet gasp, stomach tightening as heat pooled, molten and uncontainable.
Bob muttered against his neck—words George didn’t catch, didn't care to. Not right now.
He hooked his hand deeper into Bob’s back pocket, tugging him closer until the seams between them blurred. Bob’s hair ghosted against his cheek, hand skimming George’s side like it wanted an excuse to learn the territory by heart. Teeth grazed the base of his throat, leaving a bruise blooming there—dark and deliberate, as if he were being branded. Every wire on which they stood felt live, hooked to each nerve, current crackling through him until his skin was too tight to hold it.
Then a tongue dragged down his throat, tracing every pore like they held words he’d been searching for his whole life. George’s eyes flew open.
“Bob,” he hissed, but Bob only hummed against him, still caught up in the rhythm of it.
“Busy,” he muttered, and hauled George from the wall until they were flush from chest to knee.
George’s pulse thudded in his ears—then his eyes flicked past Bob’s shoulder and froze.
The studio door was wide open. Tom and Jeff filled the frame, perfectly still, caught somewhere between interruption and intrigue.
Tom’s brow twitched. “Uh...”
Bob stilled. Lips hovering at George’s skin, his grip slackened but didn’t fall away. His head turned slowly, a flush climbing high under the dim light.
No one dared to move. The amps buzzed loud enough to rattle the floor, but it was next to nothing compared to the pounding behind George’s ribs. He wasn’t sure if it was shame flaring in his chest, or whatever hotter thing that told him he didn’t really want Bob to stop.
He swallowed thickly—as if that might hide the rosy tinge of his cheeks.
Jeff exhaled and tugged Tom back by the shoulder. “We’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Roy appeared just as they left, but Jeff’s hand found his arm and steered him away, too. Their footsteps faded down the hall.
For a moment, they stayed locked where they were, neither quite willing to step back. George could feel Bob’s breath warm against his cheek, his heart that thudded against him—erratic, but still strangely in time with George’s own.
Bob’s hand flexed once against George’s hip before falling away. “We should probably... you know. Set up,” he murmured, voice low like the amps had stolen the rest of the volume from him.
George blinked, shifting his weight but not moving far. “Yeah,” he managed. But neither of them moved just yet.
--
They made it to the first night on the road without getting caught again. It was quiet. After a day of travel that hollowed them out, the hotel room felt like a harbour—low lamplight leaving the room suspended in a hazy pause, like the twilight that hung heavy over the horizon. As if the rest of the world was being kept at bay.
They were both perched on the same chair, George’s arm draped loosely over the back as they watched out of the window. Bob’s breathing was slow and steady beside him, his face faintly reflected in the glass. The weight of his shoulder leaned against George like an anchor, keeping him grounded in seas that looked calm on the surface—but moved restless underneath.
It was strange. The night before the first concert, and it felt like they were hovering at a threshold. Looking out over a city that wasn’t theirs—lights changing below them but never syncing with the crossings, people moving but never with rhythm.
George hadn’t toured the states since Dark Horse. He’d never intended to—not after the press tore into him. But things were different these days. He’d never been happier in the studio, never had more fun working with a group of people. The Wilburys still felt like some unlikely daydream he might wake from.
Even so, the apprehension coiled in his stomach, like a knot of thread wound too tight.
Bob's sleeve brushed his. “What’re you thinking about?”
The mini-fridge buzzed quietly in the corner, filling the small silence. A car horn sounded in the distance.
“Oh, you know,” George muttered. “Tomorrow.”
Bob’s gaze lingered on the side of his face, warm and unreadable. But George kept his own fixed on the glass—not on the city beyond, but their reflection. Two figures pressed close in a room big enough to keep them apart.
With a hum, Bob leaned in until their shoulders touched again.
“It’ll be fine,” he murmured. “It’s not just you on stage this time.”
George didn’t move. Bob’s leg pressed against his, and he was suddenly too aware of the warmth there—of the stillness that went on for too long. His chest felt too tight, lungs holding like they were afraid that if he let it out, he’d never breathe again.
Eventually, he nodded, the movement slow. He let his head fall against Bob’s, curls brushing his ear. His voice was quiet when he spoke next—hardly a whisper.
“Yeah.”
Outside, the lights kept flickering, constantly changing with the shadows. But the room stayed still, holding them in that in-between, as if night might never tip forwards.
--
But tomorrow was inevitable.
Standing backstage, the noise of the crowd bled through the venue. George stood still, fingers curled tight around the neck of his guitar, eyes fixed on somewhere past the opposite wall. People bustled around with last-minute cables and checklists, but it was quiet compared to his pulse in his ears. It felt like the sea rising, curling in on itself, holding its breath before it broke.
Roy passed by with a cable slung over one arm. He slowed in front of George, giving him a look that lingered just long enough to read the tension in his jaw. His gaze flicked to Bob, who was crouched by an amp, tuning.
“Go on,” Roy murmured in passing, soft enough for only Bob to hear. “He’s got that look.”
Bob glanced up, following Roy’s eyes. For a beat, he just watched George—the stillness, the way his thumb rubbed absent circles against the guitar neck—before setting his own down. He crossed the few steps over before stopping at George’s side, letting the noise of the crowd wash over them both before leaning in and nudging him with his shoulder.
George turned to face him, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Hello,” he said, and it was almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
Bob didn’t respond right away, just tracked George’s expression with his eyes, taking in every little twitch of his mouth. Then he tapped the headstock once, gaze flitting away.
“You’ve done worse things than walk out there.”
Someone dropped something, the clatter echoing through the space, bouncing off the walls. George’s smile faltered, and he dipped his head.
“I know.”
He wasn’t even sure why he was so nervous. This touring—he just didn’t know if he was made for it. At least, not anymore. Despite how much the crowds loved him, how much he knew they wanted to hear him—his music, his voice—it didn’t change the way his stomach clenched before taking the stage. He didn’t know how he’d done it before, back when he was Beatle George, practically living on the road.
But Bob smiled at him then, a small, almost shy thing. George felt the tension in his muscles soften, Bob’s calm washing over him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window.
A stagehand signalled ‘two minutes.’ The others began to gravitate towards the wings, but Bob gave George one more look before going to grab his guitar. George lingered just long enough to walk beside him—just one more moment before the noise swallowed them.
--
Speakers blasted, sound waves rippling through the air. The crowd was practically pulsing before they’d even stepped onto the stage. George’s heart thundered in the base of his throat as he stood behind Tom—already drumming a beat before the show had started. His fingers curled tighter around the neck of his guitar.
With a last glance backstage, George squared his shoulders, then followed the others on. The roar of the crowd hit him like a tidal wave, lights flaring until the edges of the stage blurred. The heat shifted, pressed warm against George’s skin, adrenaline a live wire in his veins.
He caught flickers of faces in the audience, banners being waved and held high. They all seem to fade into one. George took a deep breath, focusing on his steps crossing the stage.
Bob was beside him at the mic, already angled towards the crowd. His head tilted just so, half-smiling at their hollers, fingers ghosting over the frets—as if he was already itching for it.
He looked as if he’d been born under those lights. George couldn’t take his eyes off him.
The crowd clapped, chanted something indiscernible. The sound was fuzzy, lost somewhere in the heat of it all.
Tom glanced over, foot tapping lightly, as if he was already creating his own rhythm. George drew in a sharp breath, eyes locking with Bob’s for a split second before turning towards the mic. Bob cocked his head at him, the corner of his lip twitching.
The guitar strap settled heavier over George’s shoulder as he shifted, fingers grazing the strings as if testing the air. Instinctive.
For the briefest moment, it was like the crowd had gone silent, the stage suspended in a stillness. Fragile—like they were trapped in glass.
Then, Bob’s harmonica whispered into the silence, low and haunting.
The sound shattered it. It sent shards flying, lodging themselves just under George’s skin.
Tom’s boot hit the stage even harder. The first guitar chord rang out, clear and steady, surging through the packed audience like ultrasound waves—the frequency too high to hear above the pulse in his ears, but the vibrations large enough to feel.
The crowd erupted in cheers, a rush of sound that wrapped tight around them all.
Behind them, the drums and bass kicked in. They pounded, clashed until George felt like he’d been pulled under, body moving in sync with it all.
Suddenly, the nerves dissolved, replaced by a fierce clarity. George’s gaze flicked to Bob, whose eyes sparkled beneath the lights, catching the beams as they shifted and splintered around them. They shared a quick nod—and then George’s voice filled the whole stadium, the lyrics to ‘Heading for the Light’ reverberating from every surface.
Beside them, Tom grinned at the crowd. Bob swayed slightly—as if the music had pulled a rug out from under him, letting him fall and trusting the music to catch him.
The floor vibrated beneath their feet, his heart thudding in time with every beat. Jeff’s voice blended with his as they sang the chorus—but George could only watch Bob’s profile as his chest pushed out words like they were muscle memory.
Each number seemed to start differently—as if with each song, he was breathing through a new pair of lungs. The audience applauded louder after each one.
The stage lights lit Bob’s hair gold, threaded through his curls, hairline beaded with sweat. It splintered around him, the light itself bending to illuminate him—as though casting a halo above his head. Their harmonies wove together as they sang ‘Handle With Care’, breath warm at the mic, and they were so close that George could feel flecks of Bob’s spit against his face—intimate in a way that wasn’t glamorous but still craved.
The fingers of his fretting hand dug into the strings just that bit deeper. The steel was sharp, even beneath his callouses.
Roy’s voice resounded from the speakers, powerful and melodic in a way that made spines tingle. A smile split across George’s face, tugging at his cheeks until they began to hurt. Inches away—Bob grinned back, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it.
The crowd seemed to sway in time to the music. A loud whistle sliced through the noise. But their cheers and applause were drowned out by the narrowing of George’s mind—tunnelled to what was in front of him.
His eyes drifted down to Bob’s mouth, the way his lips glided so easily over that harmonica—as if he was making love to it. He leaned back as he blew into it, lips glistening with a sheen of saliva that made every motion smooth, light catching on the metal.
He worked that instrument inside-out like it was a dirty affair. It stirred something in George’s abdomen, his strumming hand adding an extra couple down strokes, fumbling to catch up with the chords.
Bob’s eyes flicked up. They glinted with something amused, something fond, eyelashes casting long shadows down his face.
George’s stomach tightened. This was home for Bob. This was the part he loved. You never would’ve thought it, twenty years ago.
He’d never felt more unreachable than in this moment. But, he’d also never glowed this brightly.
--
A few days later, with dirty harmonica notes still lodged in George’s ears, dim early morning light leaked through the aeroplane windows, seeping in through the glass and staining it in hazy hues of blue and pink. The cabin hummed—the low drone of the engines, the faint murmur of Jeff and Roy behind them. Somewhere further down, the warm, bitter smell of coffee wafted through the air.
Bob leaned his head against the window, eyes shut, chin tucked in to his chest. Asleep. His breathing was steady, lashes trembling faintly, lips pressed into an unknowing pout. Pages rustled beside him as George flicked through a magazine, only half-registering the perfume-slicked pictures. He blinked hard, trying to keep himself awake. They’d been up far too early.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Bob shifting—yawning, stretching—before settling back.
His shoulder grazed George's, the slightest contact that shot through George like static discharge. George’s fingers froze mid-turn, as if the world has stilled with him. He kept his eyes pinned to the article, heart giving a sudden kick.
The page slid shut under his hand as he held his breath, not daring to move lest he wake him. Bob was warm against him—not just the warmth of another body nearby, but the kind that settled in, slow and steady. It felt like sitting too close to a flame: contained, but too hot to be ignored. Licking at his skin, prodding live coals deep in his stomach.
Bob shifted again. A puff of breath escaped his parted mouth in a whisper. His curls lightly brushed against George’s jaw—ticklish, yes, but also incendiary. Like coals smouldering under his collar.
George turned the next page too fast, the glossy paper creasing sharply. His eyes lifted—not to Bob, but to the seat in front of him—every nerve suddenly aware of the blood moving under his skin.
Across the aisle, Tom watched silently, one brow raised. George caught the look and flushed, stiffening as if caught out.
Bob's head grew heavier against him—a weight that George both feared and craved, like leaning too close to the heat when he should’ve pulled away. The rise and fall of Bob’s chest was unhurried, rhythmic—nothing like the pounding in George’s own. Each slow breath shifted the air between them, ghosting over George’s skin like a gentle hand wielding a horsehair paintbrush.
Heat climbed the back of his neck. He tried to swallow it down, jaw tightening. Just a head on his shoulder, he told himself. Just that.
But it was Bob’s head, and that reality burned through the fabric like it knew better.
Eventually, he eased back, letting his cheek rest in Bob’s hair—scented with a faded blend of soap and sweat—when Tom’s voice cut through.
“Comfy there, George?”
George’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He shot Tom a glare—or as much of one as a man unwilling to move his head could manage. Jeff snickered behind them; if Bob hadn’t been asleep, George might’ve glared at him too.
Instead, his ears burned. His skin hummed wherever Bob leaned against him. George risked a glance down—curls shadowing most of Bob's face, his hands folded in his lap, knees tipped slightly his way. George's heart knocked hard against his ribs—once, twice.
He could still feel Tom’s eyes on him as he lifted the magazine again, turning pages with careful fingers now, each movement quiet so as not to disturb him.
But he wasn’t reading. Not really. Not when his eyes kept straying back to Bob—and the weight on his shoulder felt like it would follow him long after they touched ground.
--
One late night, with half of the tour already behind them, they lingered in George and Bob’s room—loose with drink, quiet with the kind of tired that softens the edges. The city’s hum spilled in through the open window: car horns fading, voices half-heard, air just cool enough to make the whisky feel warmer. Tom sat in the sill, back against the frame, his chair left empty next to George.
Bob, slouching back against the headboard, turned his glass in slow, idle circles. The light caught the amber in brief flashes—small suns breaking apart in the liquid. Jeff, leaning on one elbow beside him, watched the motion with a faintly amused curve to his mouth.
“Careful with that,” Jeff drawled. “Keep staring at it like that and it’s liable to evaporate.”
The glass stilled. Bob’s eyes flicked to Jeff, then slid past him until they found George—who sat tapping the base of his own drink lightly against the joint of his ankle.
“Don’t worry,” Bob murmured. His voice felt slow, unhurried, but there was a weight to it. “I know what I’m doing with my drinks.”
The words lodged somewhere between them, invisible but taut. George meant to look away, break the contact—he really did—but found himself caught instead, breath coming a little too shallow, his lips parting as if that might give him room to think.
Bob's eyes narrowed faintly—almost a smile—before he looked down again.
Roy sat a foot away in the armchair, angled towards the bed, his hands loose over his stomach. “You’d better,” he said mildly, half-smiling. “Nothing worse than wasting good whisky.”
Jeff's grin tilted towards him. “Only thing worse than Bob wasting it is him hogging it.”
Bob’s mouth twitched, a sly little thing. He dragged his tongue over his lower lip as though weighing the taste of his next words.
“I’m a careful custodian,” he said at last, before tipping the last of his whisky down. The ice clinked against the glass as he tapped it once with his finger. “Can’t just hand it over to anybody.”
Tom let his heel knock against the wall. “In simpler terms—he’s stingy.”
Roy chuckled. “Never pegged you for stingy, Bob.”
Bob’s eyes drifted back to George—glinting now, deliberate. “Depends on the company,” he said, slow enough that each syllable seemed to drag a moment too long.
Heat pooled low in George’s back, climbing up his spine. His fingers tightened around his own glass until he set it carefully on the armrest—just so it wouldn’t betray the tremor in his hand.
He felt Tom’s gaze from where he sat on the windowsill—same as on the plane, knowing—but George didn’t dare look over. He fixed his eyes on a patch of wall just between Bob and Jeff’s heads, willing himself not to shift.
Bob swung his legs off the bed, his movements languid and unbothered. He padded over to the table behind George where the half-empty bottle waited, refilled his glass. His hip grazed the back of George’s chair, whisky splashing against the sides.
Jeff’s voice cut through the room. “You're saving some for us, right?”
Bob ignored him, capping the bottle and setting it down with a soft, deliberate thud.
Instead of returning to the bed, he lowered himself into Tom’s empty chair. His hand brushed George’s knee in a way that could pass for accident—but didn’t feel like one.
George went still, staring past Roy, who was talking about something he’d seen in the morning paper. The words barely reached him.
Bob shifted closer until their knees touched, the faint scrape of wood on wood marking the movement. George’s lungs stalled.
Then Bob leaned in, whisky-warm breath against his cheek.
“Loosen up,” he murmured—low enough that it seemed to graze George’s skin rather than his ears.
George let out a shaky exhale. A small nod.
Turning back towards the others, Bob wore that easy, unreadable smile—but he didn’t move away. His elbow settled on George’s armrest, fingertips grazing just above his knee—casual to anyone else. Anything but to George.
The warmth of the room seemed to hum, sending little shocks shivering through his skin—but the conversation flowed on as if nothing had shifted.
Roy tapped the arm of his chair. “I think I’ve slept in more hotel beds this year than my own.”
“At least they’re nice beds,” Jeff said, swirling the last of his whisky. “I know I’ve slept in worse.”
George lifted his glass to his lips again, relishing the burn down his throat. But when Bob pressed his fingers more firmly into the fabric of his trousers, he nearly choked on it.
The touch was slight—and yet it seared under his skin like a meteor breaking atmosphere. He swallowed hard, kept his gaze locked on the far wall—but didn’t pull away.
That seemed to encourage Bob. His hand found George’s thigh, resting there with the quiet authority of someone who had no business owning it. At least George could attribute the flush on his cheeks to the alcohol.
“I don’t pity these two sharing a room, though,” Roy went on, oblivious. He smiled, but didn’t glance over.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Jeff muttered.
George shifted slightly in his chair, the upholstery sighing beneath him. Bob followed, palm warmer now, fingers inching upwards—inwards.
Keeping his face still—that was all George had to do. Just don’t react. But his pulse throbbed at the base of his throat, and the heat between his thighs wasn't all Bob’s hand.
“Did you hear a word I just said, George?” Tom leaned forwards, smirk curling at the edges. His hair fell into his eyes, glinting with something that told George he knew.
George blinked, the question reaching him a beat too late. He cleared his throat and forced a tight smile.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, though it sounded too thin.
Bob’s hand crept higher, warm fingers pressing into the tender inside of his thigh.
Roy glanced over—still half-clueless—but his eyes lingered an extra second before flitting away and continuing to talk with Jeff. Tom, on the other hand, grinned outright, like a cat waiting for the canary to drop.
“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Bob said, leaning in just enough that his voice seemed to vibrate straight through George’s ribcage.
George tried to laugh, but it cracked, high and brittle, like a guitar string stretched too far. Bob’s thumb began to stroke lazily. Breath hitching, George turned his head just slightly towards him. Cheeks tinged pink. He swallowed. Bob’s nose was only inches from his own.
His gaze roamed over Bob’s face—the creases etched like ripples in sand left by a retreating tide. The rough shadow along his jaw. The way he looked at George like he’d already won.
His thumb pressed harder into the crevice where thigh met pelvis. Air left George’s lungs in a sharp, involuntary hiss. The corner of Bob’s mouth twitched.
That was it.
“If you two aren’t gonna wait till we leave before you start touching each other,” Tom drawled, “at least try not to make it a floor show.”
George jolted, mortified, and pulled his knee back. Heat flamed up his neck.
“Wait—what?” Jeff straightened, blinking.
Roy’s gaze flicked between them, slow, as if finally piecing things together. Bob just withdrew his hand, infuriatingly calm—as if brushing lint from his trousers.
George kept still, head ducked, eyes fixed on the rumpled sheets at the foot of the bed. He could feel Tom grinning—like he’d finally caught that canary.
“...Maybe we should leave you to it?” Jeff offered.
“No, it’s fine, you can—”
“Thanks.”
A beat of silence.
George glanced sideways. Bob stared straight ahead, mouth crooked like he was holding back a laugh.
Then Tom lost it completely, shoulders shaking, hunching over, gripping the window frame like it might save him from some unseen tumble.
George muttered a quiet profanity under his breath as Roy and Jeff stood, trading a long, amused glance. Bob didn’t move, not an inch, as they dragged Tom out of the room.
The latch clicked shut behind them. Silence swelled in its wake, broken only by the distant hum of the city.
“Fuck you,” George hissed—but the way his knees pressed closer together told Bob he didn’t mean a word.
Bob leaned forwards, prying George’s glass from his hands and setting it down on the table behind them. When he looked back, it was with eyes that held a low, banking fire—less a flare than steady burn, like a furnace. Patient, but certain.
He smiled, slow. “You didn’t stop me.” Then he shrugged, and, beneath his breath, “It’s not like they haven't figured it out.”
George’s lips parted, but whatever protest he meant to give died in his throat when Bob set his own glass down and came to stand in front of him. One hand on the armrest, the other settled back on George’s thigh, drawing idle, deliberate lines through the fabric.
“All night,” Bob murmured, voice so even it made George’s pulse trip. “Driving me crazy.”
Before George could answer, Bob’s fingers slid higher, undoing his belt with an almost maddening lack of haste. Taking his time like he’d been biding it all evening.
Had he been?
Bob's gaze never left George’s face, watching every flicker there, the way George's breath picked up when knuckles brushed him.
When his hand stilled, resting warm and heavy, George let out a small exhale. For a heartbeat, Bob just stood there, weighing something in the air between them.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he bent his knees—measured, intentional—and lowered himself onto George’s lap. The weight was sudden, anchoring, pressing George deeper into the chair.
George’s breath caught. His hands twitched on the armrest, until Bob took one and placed it on his hip, holding it there like a quiet instruction.
“Better,” Bob said under his breath, as though this had been the destination all along.
Heat pooled lower and lower in George’s stomach as Bob’s palm drifted, ghosting over where he needed him most, his trousers now uncomfortably tight.
He should feel shame—called out like that in front of everyone. Should feel angry at Bob.
But he couldn’t. Not now. Not with this weight, this heat.
“I can’t believe you.” His voice came out hoarse, fraying at the edges.
Bob only hummed, pressing the heel of his hand into him. George’s hips bucked before he could stop himself, fingers tightening in the fabric of Bob’s shirt.
A finger traced lazily up George’s neck, raising every fine hair, and Bob leaned in, until their lips brushed when he spoke.
“Been waiting,” he murmured. “Since the tour started.”
Most nights, they were too exhausted after the shows that they usually just fell asleep right away. But even so...
George looked up through his lashes, catching the pale blue ring of Bob’s irises, pupils blown wide like George was the only thing in the room worth seeing. A helpless, quiet sound escaped his throat.
The pressure shifted, firmer now, and Bob rolled his hips forwards—agonisingly slow, like he was testing George’s breaking point.
George’s grip finally found its place: one hand locked at Bob's hip—just as he’d been told. The other curled tight into the back of his shirt, knuckles white.
Bob’s breath hitched as he moved again, sharper this time, a quiet grunt slipping from him. His other hand braced on George’s shoulder, fingers digging in. Each drag stole a fraction of George’s breath until he was sucking air through his teeth.
“Feel that?” Bob's voice was thick. “All damn night.” He shifted his weight just enough to push harder, rubbing insistently.
“Stop talking,” George grumbled—and tilted his chin up just enough for their mouths to meet.
Bob sighed into it, exhaling through his nose, the kiss hot and unhurried. Their lips pressed with a weight that made George’s pulse slam. Bob moved against him like he could fuse them together, every shift sharper, more insistent.
Something frantic slipped into his movements. His grip tightened; his brow furrowed. Then his breath stuttered—hips jerking once, twice—before he stilled. His head tipped forwards, forehead brushing George’s temple with a low, unguarded groan.
For a moment, only their breathing filled the room. Then Bob’s hand slid down, working at George’s trousers with deft, unhurried fingers.
“Your turn,” he muttered, freeing him with a slow tug. His palm wrapped around George, warm and certain, and the first stroke pulled a ragged sound from George’s throat.
--
Concert after concert, crowd after crowd—the final night rolled around faster than anyone expected. The tour had passed in a blur, and the easy camaraderie evaporated any initial doubt George had ever had. Every rehearsal, every note played, led them here to this moment, and George could feel the weight of it all pressing against his ribs.
Now, the crowd roared louder than any before, every cheer thick with the fever of goodbye. George kept his head down, fingers steady on the fretboard, but the blinding stage lights made the sweat sting his eyes.
He didn’t need to see to know where Bob was. He'd been keeping track all tour.
Even from the other side of the stage, past Jeff’s shoulder, Bob was framed in that sharp white spotlight like he was the only person George had ever been meant to notice. Weeks of shows, hotel rooms, backstage corridors—all of it folded into the smallest glances now. The memory of every night they’d spent lingered under his skin like embers threatening to ignite tinder.
Roy's voice cracked and soared for ‘Not Alone Anymore,’ aching and raw. George told himself to focus on the chords, on keeping time.
But his eyes kept drifting—catching on the curve of Bob’s mouth, the way he leaned into his guitar like it was telling him something private. Lips brushing his harmonica like every note was meant for George—every tilt of his head a private message, every flex of his fingers a spark.
They hadn’t been close all night. Not since sound check. Not since that hallway outside the greenroom when Bob’s hand had brushed his, knuckles grazing—as casual as communicating via radio waves. But the radio crackled, static, like the antenna had been knocked out of position.
The song ended to applause that jolted him back. They slid seamlessly into ‘Dirty World’.
Bob eyes found him in the first verse and didn’t leave. George felt his cheeks heat, ears buzzing, as Bob’s lips curled around the words ‘pretty thing’, carrying the tease across the stage and into his chest. His fingers almost slipped on the strings, caught between the music and the intensity of Bob’s gaze.
As Bob sang of quivering legs and bending minds, George’s stomach twisted. Each line wrapped around him, tugging at something inside of him that he couldn’t quite ignore.
Even hen the rest of the band joined in, Bob’s stare still didn't stray, steady, deliberate, claiming him in a way the stage lights could never reveal.
It was George who looked away first, though not before catching the corner of Bob’s mouth twitch in victory, a silent acknowledgment that he’d won something without a single word.
--
Morning sunlight pressed at the edges of the drawn curtains, turning the room’s shadows to gold. The suitcases lay gaping at the foot of the bed, half-packed and half-forgotten. In the bathroom, George’s toothbrush rasped against his teeth, a soft steady rhythm that filled the otherwise silent space.
He spat, rinsed, and leaned into the doorway, towel hanging loose in his hand. Bob sat on the bench, suitcases at his feet, one ankle crossed over the other. He thumbed idly through the hotel’s complimentary pamphlet like it might hold something worth finding.
“Maybe we should do another album,” George said, grinning at his own reflection before stepping into the room. “You know—keep the Wilburys alive.”
Bob didn’t look up, only let out a small breath through his nose. “If we tour it, sure.”
George stilled, fingers tightening on the towel. He hadn’t expected that—not from the man who'd needed coaxing just to show up in the studio. The man who, until a few months ago, hadn’t shared so much as a stage with him in over a year.
And touring—well, touring hadn't been half as bad as he’d feared. In fact... he’d enjoyed it. Especially the part about sharing a room with Bob.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice betraying an unbidden hope.
This time, Bob looked up. His smile was small but sure.
“Yeah.”
--
“‘Volume One’ implies there’ll be more. Can we expect another Wilburys album?”
They'd somehow—miraculously—talked Bob into showing up for the post-tour interview a few weeks later. The sofa sagged under the weight of Roy on one side, George in the middle, and Bob on the other, his shoulder warm against George’s. Light spilled in, dust motes drifting lazily, catching on the folds of their clothing. Jeff and Tom sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of them, facing the cameras.
“We haven’t really thought about it,” Tom said, shrugging with that easy, lopsided charm.
Roy chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Though I’m sure none of us would be opposed.”
Jeff glanced back at the three of them. “If anyone needs convincing, it’ll be Bob.”
George grinned, tipping into Bob’s space, bumping his shoulder against him. “Well, Bob told me he wanted to do another album,” he said, like he was letting the world in on a secret.
Bob turned his head slowly, one eyebrows raised, a question in the curl of his lips: did I now?
“Well, I—"
“And,” George added, almost too quickly, “he suggested another tour.”
Bob’s boot found George’s foot—a quiet, precise press. George bit back a laugh, tilting his head towards him in mock offence, a spark passing between them like static electricity over open wires.
“Is that so?” the reporter asked, leaning forwards, piqued interest in every syllable.
The other’s eyes flicked over—none of them had heard anything of the sort. Intrigue broke across their faces, as if they, too, could sense the private cadence humming beneath the conversation.
Bob cleared his throat, his gaze never leaving George “Who knows,” he said, voice soft but certain, carrying the echo of possibility. “Maybe there will be a Volume Two.”
The cameras caught the words. But George caught the way the corner of Bob’s mouth tugged upward, just for him—small, but enough to set his chest warm.