All Those Years Ago - Lennison Fan Fiction - Beatles Slash Fan Fiction

Chapter six, 1962: part B, Interlude

George felt terrible about how he'd spoken to John but he didn't apologize to the older lad. He sat up in bed, running his hands through his hair, not sure that being cold toward his mate was the best thing to do right then but unable to think about another way to deal with the situation he found himself in. John sounded fine to him, though he hadn't protested when George had asked him to remove his arm, but he didn't dare looking at him to find out whether he was truly feeling okay.

Instead George got out of bed, quickly walking over to where he'd discarded his clothing the night before and slipping on his drainpipes. "I was thinking," he said nervously, grabbing his boots and tugging them onto his feet, "of switching rooms with Paul." John's eyes blinked open at that. He'd been curling upon himself on the bed, trying to make up for the loss of George's warmth and presence against him by burying himself deeper under the covers, but his mate's words made him look up sharply.

"What?" He asked, dumbfounded, eyes narrowing at George, pretty sure he'd misunderstood him, not wanting to believe that this mean what he thought it did. "What for?"

"What for?" George parroted John's words, not in a mocking way but rather surprised that his friend seemed to be offended he could want to switch rooms with one of their band mates. "'Cause." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling put on the spot by John's simple question. Why was John asking him this? He thought his mate would be rather pleased with the suggestion but John merely snorted at the curt reply, knowing fully well why George wanted to change rooms and concealing the sensation of cold twisting in his chest and tingling his skin with a roll of his eyes. "Right." 

George turned away, grabbing his leather jacket and putting it on. "I don't want to share a room with you anymore," he lied easily, but couldn't bring himself to look at John because his poker face was terrible and he knew John would be able to see right through him. The older lad sighed heavily, sitting up with an irritated groan. "Oh come on, George. It was juss a wank, no big deal," he tried to reason, fiddling with the sheets nervously. 

George frowned, John's words sounding like an insult to him. 'Just a wank' implied that what they'd done last night had been meaningless to John, that George could've been some German bird he'd been humping away on for all his mate cared. George thought he should have felt relieved that his friend was willing to shrug it off as if it hadn't happened, but instead he felt hurt and ashamed for feeling the things he did for him. "Just a wank," he muttered underneath his breath, as cold and unaffected as possible. 

"'m not a ponce," George said shakily, trying to sound convinced. "I'm not. I don't know what you are," he said cuttingly, "but I'm not." It took John a few seconds to process what George was implying, anger mixing with the hurt he already felt, making him shiver, blood flushing hotly in his cheeks and neck. He let his vexation and rage take over easily, preferring them by far to the painful feeling of rejection he'd experienced only a few seconds earlier. "Are you calling me a poofter, 'arrison?" He asked slowly, his voice low and dangerously quiet, far too blank to be anything but murderous. 

George turned around, his face expressionless. "I didn't start it. You did," he said accusingly, swallowing hard and knowing he was pushing John's buttons. George wasn't a dummy and he knew it was best to stay away from John when he was in one of his moods, but for some reason he couldn't help himself. He was intent on hurting his mate although he didn't think he'd manage anything but to get himself punched in the face anyway. 

John's eyebrows corked up at his mate's uncharacteristically confrontational and aggressive behaviour. He'd learnt through the years that if there was anything George disliked it was direct, frontal confrontation. He'd just brood and sulk usually, and maybe try a sneaky revenge on the sly when he was really pissed, but he'd never be that harsh with people, and especially not with John. "I don't remember you struggling wildly, either," he pointed out, his voice a carefully blank drawl.