Chapter Text
The Beatles had found their place on the top of the world, and they weren’t stopping there. In fact, by the time they returned to America for the second time, their egos had grown to mammoth sizes: after all, they were the most famous men on the planet, just as they had always dreamed, and sometimes they couldn’t help but feel sincerely untouchable.
However, along with that magic feeling, they were beginning to learn that fame wasn’t exactly all it had seemed to be - and it certainly wasn’t like in the Elvis pictures. It was more like a weaponized pendulum which you could never predict: Just after landing in Vegas, Brian told them they could all have hookers for the evening, and Paul had confidently requested that Brian find him two of them - needless to say, Paul was unbearably pleased with himself the next morning. At the very next show in San Francisco, reports came back that at least fifty audience members had been injured in the pandemonium, and wherever they were next (none of them were entirely sure) they had received bomb threats, but the police had decided confidently that the threat of an angry mob of fans would be greater than the threat of a bomb, and so, the show went on. That night, backstage, a Dutch woman who had been flown in by Derek let all four of them have her in the dressing room, having been paid to let them each do whatever they'd like for however long they’d like to, the only rule being that she came out of it conscious. Soon after, they found themselves in a club with Jayne Mansfield at some party being thrown for them, but the place had quickly erupted into complete chaos, The Beatles literally having to be carried above the crowd, and George had become so annoyed with one photographer that he threw his Scotch and Coke at him. The day after that, they had spent the day at Burt Lancaster’s house, swimming in his pool and playing cowboys with toy guns, a good bit of relaxing and being innocent again before the show on the following night, at which they received even more death threats that were ignored in favor of keeping the crowd happy.
In short: It was non-stop madness.
Tonight, after having been mysteriously missing for the last full day and night, Brian had slipped quietly back onto the scene and excitedly informed them in the car that it had been arranged for them to meet with another big star: Bob Dylan. George’s ears perked up in spite of his exhaustion.
“When?” Paul asked, a bit of excitement showing in his pitched-up voice.
“Tonight,” Brian had grinned, “There won’t be any other time, we move on to New Jersey tomorrow. You’ll get a full day off there, but Mr. Dylan will be preoccupied elsewhere.” There was a short silence in which The Beatles all eyed one another. Brian began to twiddle his fingers and look quite nervous. “Erm. Would you rather we try and reschedule?”
“No!” The boys spoke in unison, to varying degrees of enthusiasm. They all smiled giddily.
John turned quickly to Brian and mussed up his hair. “Good manager, good manager,” He said, all nasal.
“Oh, John, stop it,” Brian chuckled, batting his hands away and attempting to fix himself in the window tint. “Alright, he’ll be meeting you at your hotel at midnight.” He looked at his watch. “My time says it’s currently 11:15 -”
“- but your watch is fast, so it’s 11:00,” Paul finished, “Plenty of time.”
Brian smiled at him warmly. “Now, if it’s alright with you boys, I’d like to join you. Bob’s manager will be accompanying him, and I’d like to have a talk with him. After that, I’ll leave you be.”
“Ye always actin’ like we don’t enjoy yer company, Bri,” Ringo drawled, and George didn’t miss the faint embarrassed blush that crept over Brian’s cheeks.
“Well,” he said, quiet, and that was that.
When they got to the hotel, they all broke into a playful run, laughing all down the corridors and shoving one another along. The Beatles were big enough now to have luxury rooms of their own in the hotel, big enough to have the whole floor of a hotel if they wanted, but they just weren’t used to having their own rooms, and they always somehow ended up in the same space. Here in New York, they technically had two large hotel suites to split between them (“One for sleeping and one for fucking,” Paul had sneered) and yet they had once again all found themselves crowded into the same small bathroom.
“It’s almost time. God, I don’t know why I’m so nervous!” John practically squealed, fixing his hair for the hundredth time in the mirror over the sink. Paul stood next to him shaving his face, something he would usually reserve for the morning, even if a girl was coming around. Rich was sat on the toilet (trousers up, mind you - the four of them weren’t that close) with a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he watched his friends fuss over themselves. Although George had his own ciggies in his pocket, he sat on the edge of the bathtub and shared with Ringo, knocking knees and taking the time in between drags to clean the dirt from under his nails.
George wasn’t the type to get starstruck - none of them really were, to be honest, save for maybe John - but he had to admit to himself that he was pretty excited to meet Bob Dylan. Actually, he owned all of the records Dylan had released so far; he really dug Dylan’s writing and would go as far as to call it poetry, although poetry wasn’t something he knew much about. He felt that he and Bob would get along well, and he wished The Beatles could be more like Dylan sometimes. He wished for quite a lot of things, though, despite all of the money and ‘success’ they had achieved. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wished none of it had happened at all. But, then again, he likely wouldn’t be sitting here waiting to meet Bob Dylan if that were the case. Highs and lows - the pendulum at work.
Brian peaked around the bend with a kind smile. “It’s nearly time now. Why don’t you come and wait out here?” After Paul wiped his face clean, the four of them complied and followed Brian back out to the main room. “I’ve ordered dining service, they’re preparing everything fresh,” Brian informed them, “And yes, John, before you ask, there will be plenty to drink.”
“Ta, Brian,” Ringo said, and the others followed suit; “Yeh, ta,” “Mhm,” “Ta, Brian!”
Nervous energy built up as they waited. Paul was checking his watch every two seconds, and John had begun to pace back and forth - even Ringo was bouncing his leg something vicious. At approximately 12:04 am, a soft knock came at the door.
“Who is it?” Brian called out.
“Elston Thomas. This is Richard Berry’s room, yeah?” Forget the code names they had agreed upon - the voice was unmistakable. Brian stood to open the door, but he was beaten to it: John and George opened the door together, but only after a brief and admittedly childish hand-slapping fight while reaching for the doorknob.
He wasn’t exactly what George had expected. All of the press images and album covers that George had seen had made Bob Dylan look like a simple working man in blue jeans, someone who might live in a small town in the southern United States somewhere. Someone who got his hands dirty sometimes, someone who might’ve grown up on a farm. He had already known that the image wasn’t entirely true - besides the regular truth-warping of the press, he got the sense that Dylan himself was the type to masquerade his true self behind webs of over exaggeration and some very tall tales. Still, the difference in appearance was a bit of a shock. The Bob Dylan in front of him was angular, mysterious, pale. He wore a black turtleneck with a black blazer overtop, and his trousers were just as dark and slim. He was skinny, small in general, and his eyes held shadows that made him appear older than he really was.
Bob cocked his head to the side. “So…which one of you is Lennon and which of you is McCartney?” When he was met with dead silence, he cracked a playful grin. “I’m just kiddin’ fellas,” he said on the edge of a laugh, “Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” He leaned forward, his hand stuck out towards George. “Nice to meet you.”
George took his hand and shook it firmly. “D’ye know which one I am, then?” He knew he was almost always the one whose name was forgotten, even with other musicians. Sometimes it was amusing - sometimes it was a drag. A sly smile revealed his canines as he waited for Bob’s reply, and to his great surprise, Bob smiled brightly, amused.
“Course I do. You’re supposed to be the ‘Quiet One,’ right?” Bob sucked his teeth, “I have a feeling they’ve got that wrong, though, don’t they, George?”
George was more than a little pleased at that. “Wait n’ see,” He said cheekily.
Bob nodded and then went down the line - “John, Ringo, Paul.” Paul smiled as they shook hands, a bit of the son of a businessman shining through.
“Come and sit, we’ll chat and wait for the drinks to get here.” Bob and his manager, Albert Grossman, entered the suite and shut the door behind themselves.
Along with them was Al Aronowitz, a journalist who, to The Beatles’ understanding, had arranged this whole meeting. “Won’t be here long,” He said when they all noticed him, “And I won’t print anything you fellas wouldn’t want printed.” Albert and Brian shook hands, and Albert whispered something in Brian’s ear which made him smile a little. They stepped to the side together while Paul led the others to the semi-circle of couches and loveseats in the center of the room.
Bob sat down, immediately crossing his legs, and John sat next to him, leaning in close - too close, squinting at him and grinning giddily. “Dig yer stuff,” John said thinly, “I’ve got ‘Don’t Think Twice’ in me personal collection.”
Bob simply smiled back at him wryly. “Oh, yeah?”
“He wails it in the shower, too,” Ringo said, straddling the armrest by Bob. John shoved at his shoulder and nearly knocked him straight over.
Bob chuckled, “Well, is he any good?”
Ringo shook his head solemnly, prompting John to leap up and pull him into a full headlock. “Listen here - ”
“Alright, alright guys,” Bob put his hands up, “Listen here.” John let go of Ringo and turned to Bob, who grinned naughtily. “I’ve got some really good grass.”
The Beatles all looked at each other with eyebrows raised. As they looked at one another in silent discussion (Are we doing this, then? Why not, aye?) Bob continued to talk and fish in his pockets. “Dig your stuff too, believe it or not. Even liked that song that’s so popular. Just can’t figure out how you convinced them to let you put ‘I get high’ on the radio.” He shook his head a bit and smiled. “Privledges of being The Fucking Beatles, huh?” He finally found what he was looking for: a small rectangular tin which, when he opened it, revealed some hand rolled joints and a small blue matchbook.
They all eyed one another, unsure of if they should admit the truth or let it be. The silence began to speak for itself, and Bob tilted his head in question. It was Paul who finally spoke up: “Actually, the words are ‘I can’t hide,’ not ‘I get high.’” He laughed a bit through his nose. “Don’t think they’d ever let us put that on the radio.”
“Oh shit,” Bob laughed a bit to himself, surprised. “And I’m always lecturing people for assuming things about my songs. Sorry, man…” He chuckled to himself, “...but you guys do ‘get high,’ yeah?”
The Beatles gave one another a look. In the silence, Bob frowned in disbelief. “Come on. There’s no way the good boy act is the truth. I mean, if it is, no sweat, but…” His eyes flicked between them all curiously before he pointed at George. “...you talk like you’ve been in a gang or somethin!” George smiled at that, all crooked - he liked to take that as a compliment, and he didn’t exactly make any moves to correct Bob.
“He hasn’t been,” Ringo piped up in his place, “But I have.”
Bob’s eyebrows lifted in slight surprise, and Paul smiled a bit at him. “We aren’t ‘good little boys’ like the papers say, we promise. It’s just that not everybody needs to know that, y’know?” He looked at John, who cocked his head to the side, flashing a snide little smile.
“We fuck. We drink, and we have fun doin’ it. We’ve used speed. But…we haven’t properly tried pot yet. At least not anything worth a shit.” He snorted. "Used to smoke tea a lot, though."
Bob grinned naughtily and pressed his hands together. “In that case, please allow me to spoil you.” The Beatles all grinned at one another and nodded.
From the corner of the room, Brian piped up, “You boys just be careful. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to hide that one or all of you had gone to jail, and for drugs no less.” Just then, three sharp knocks landed on the hotel door. Brian paled.
“Dining service?” A voice called out, and in unison, everyone softened a bit. Bob and George looked up, eyes meeting. It was the first time all night that they had really looked at one another up close, and George was surprised to find his breath hitch in his chest when Bob smiled at him, warm and humored.
“Lemme put this stuff away.” Bob closed his tin and stood, slipping out of sight of the front door.
Brian approached and looked through the peephole. “Name?” He asked, checking a small piece of paper in his pocket.
“Lisa Hernandez?” the voice replied, and Brian seemed satisfied enough with that. He slipped the paper back into his pocket and let the woman enter, bringing with her a large and luxurious dining cart filled with food and drink, white curtains falling and flowing around the cart. The worker then nodded politely and went on her way, shutting the door behind herself.
The food looked divine, mostly different finger foods like hors d'oeuvres, honey meatballs, deviled eggs, stuffed mushrooms, and (specially requested from Brian, who knew the boys might be picky) some mini round jam butties. The bar, too, was nicely stocked - three ice buckets full of bourbon, scotch, whiskey, and wine, with a menu and a number for more options.
Before anyone could make their move, Albert stopped everyone from approaching the dining cart. “Hold it,” he said carefully, quietly. Then, twice as loud, he barked “I know you’re in there. Come on out.” Suddenly, a set of slim fingers pulled the curtain aside to reveal two teenaged girls sitting hidden beneath the rolling cart. They looked nervous, but far from ashamed, and when they saw The Beatles standing behind Albert and Brian, their entire faces lit up. Luckily, they didn’t immediately scream, but the danger lingered. Paul waved politely, smiling. John shoved his tongue under his lip and crossed his eyes at them.
They climbed out from their positions, fidgeting anxiously. “We just-” One of the girls began, but Brian held up a hand and swiftly interrupted her.
“You two will have to leave. Sorry, girls.” The girls’ faces fell, but they didn’t appear ready to put up much of a fight about it.
“Go on home, now. Both of you,” Albert added professionally, ushering the two girls from the room.
Once the door was shut behind them, Brian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sweat on his forehead. “I can’t stand it when they find their way in,” he grumbled, “I always tell the hotel staff to double check everything. I don’t know how they keep slipping through.”
In all of the pandemonium with the food cart and the teenage girls, they realized they had lost sight of Bob. Not just that, Bob had taken a piece of them - Ringo had vanished. The three remaining Beatles all looked at one another with eyebrows raised as they realized the absence in unison, and right on cue, Brian piped up nervously: “Now, where did Richard go?”
“Bob?” Albert called out. John marched over to the bathroom, pressing his ear against the closed door. He smiled a bit.
“Rich?” He tried the knob, but it was locked. This discovery changed John’s expression immediately. “Wha’ the fuck,” he muttered, trying the knob harder with no success. The others looked his way.
“‘S wrong?” Paul asked quietly, and George cocked his eyebrow in interest. John pressed his ear against the door once more, listening for a moment before he scowled.
“They’re in there smokin’ without us!” He yelped, then started to pound on the door. The other two scrambled to their feet and dashed to the door, falling over each other to press their ears against the door and shout in protest.
It took only about three minutes, but three minutes felt like an eternity. Finally, the bathroom door opened, and the two men stepped out. The smell that came out with them wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was much stronger than George had personally ever experienced, even in the darkest corners of Hamburg. Ringo’s eyes were rosy and glassed over, heavy in the lids. He smiled goofily, crooked and toothy - “Lads.”
Bob came out behind him, a shit eating grin plastered over his blushing face. He immediately put his hands up in defense. “Relax, relax,” He laughed, “Just wanted to get a little one-on-one talk with Richard here,” He patted Ringo on the shoulder, “and we only smoked a half-a-one, there’s plenty. Let’s sit.”
Bob slipped past everyone and sauntered over to the couches, perching on the arm of the couch where Ringo had been before. He stuck a new joint in his mouth and lit it just like it was a cigarette, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. The light from the match made Bob’s eyes look like melting ice - George didn’t realize he was staring until John shoved him with his shoulder on his way by.
Bob took a full drag before passing it on to Ringo, who immediately began practicing his smoke rings with it. Ringo passed it absentmindedly back to Bob, who passed it on to John next, who took it eagerly - he puffed on it greedily before passing it to Paul, who was not any more delicate about the affair, almost as if it were a competition. Finally, it was handed to George. George sucked on it a couple of times, making sure to inhale as deeply as possible - he had heard somewhere in another world that it worked better that way - and he was only a little embarrassed when it made him choke up and cough. He tried to pass it back to Ringo as he cleared his throat, heat rising to his face from the effort, but the lad shook his head.
“‘M done in,” Ringo sighed, sinking into the couch, “Pass it on.”
George shrugged and held it out to Bob instead. When Bob’s fingers brushed against his to take it, George could feel the guitar calluses, just like his own, and something about the gentle scrape of their fingertips together made George feel an instantaneous connection to him, made him feel that they were the same somehow. George met Bob’s eyes and he smiled down at him, slowly hitting on the joint and letting smoke float up to masquerade his hollowed face as they held their silent conversation. You feel that too, don’t you? When Bob passed it on to John, George’s eyes remained glued on him, tracing the edges and plains of his jaw, his brow, his nose, committing him to memory as the high began to discreetly creep its way in. A strange thought kept replaying in George’s head: Don’t we know one another?
As John let the smoke roll from his mouth, he leaned back over the back of the couch and stretched, eyeing Brian. “Eppy?” John wiggled his eyebrows. George smiled a bit - Brian wouldn’t and couldn’t say no to John. John held it out to him and, predictably, Brian got up from where he sat with Albert and leaned forward (a bit stiffly, all prim and posh and professional) to take the joint. It was funny to watch Mr. Epstein smoke pot: he had always seemed to be a bit too stiff and mature for such things. George expected to have a laugh at poor Eppy while he coughed up a lung, but he never got the chance to: Brian hit the joint smoothly, twice, and then passed it on with a shy nod before he returned to his conversation.
The joint made its way around two more times before it was too small and Bob put it out on his boot, slipping the end of it into his blazer pocket. It had already started to set in, like being comfortably tipsy just before the floor drops out from under you. Everything was pleasantly warm, and the room seemed to bend and sway just a bit, as if they were on a ship. The feeling made George grin to himself.
“I like this,” Paul echoed George’s thoughts, and Ringo hummed in agreement.
“Just wait a few minutes,” Bob suggested with a smile, “It gets even better.” He leaned back, arms behind his head, legs crossed. He was balanced well on the tiny arm of the couch - George thought it almost made him look delicate. “In the meantime,” Bob drawled, “How does it feel to be on top of the world?”
“Always knew we’d get here,” John said in a funny deep voice, and Paul giggled a bit and nodded in agreement.
“Always knew something would happen.”
The four of them grinned wildly at each other before they all leapt up together and squealed in unison, “The top-a-most of the pop-a-most!” They all fell back into their previous positions, elbowing one another and snickering.
“It’s fantastic,” Paul grinned, but John immediately followed it with a low groan. Bob cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s exhausting…” John sighed. Then he smiled cheekily. “...and it’s fantastic.”
“There’s just nowhere to hide anymore,” George interjected, and John nodded in agreement. “We can barely leave the hotel without being ripped apart.” He thought of the girls in the dining cart and felt his skin crawl. “Sometimes ye don’t even have to leave the hotel, lately.”
“Try the maintenance rooms and broom closets by the stairwells in all the good venues,” Bob grinned, “Nobody thinks to look in there for some reason.”
“Not even sure that would work,” Paul sighed, and Ringo nodded along sagely.
“Gotta sneak our way out of the halls and venues in laundry trucks an’ all that,” Ringo mumbled. Sniffed. “‘S fun sometimes, though. Like we’re in a spy film.” They all giggled a bit in agreement.
“Yeh, can’t complain s’much,” John resigned, leaning back and shutting his eyes, “‘S only what we always fuckin’ dreamed of.”
George leaned back and sighed deeply in agreement, letting his eyes flutter closed comfortably. Then, like a rolling wave, the full weight of the high came over him. It was warm, dizzying, and honestly one of the best things George had ever felt. He opened his eyes back up just a bit, and a laugh bubbled out of his chest for no other reason than the joy of the moment. He got everyone laughing along with him, and soon enough it was uncontrollable, made even funnier by the fact that there was absolutely no reason for it. Paul, in particular, couldn’t control his laughter, laughing so hard that he made no sound and snot threatened to drip from his nose.
When they all calmed down, they simply sat and joked for a while, telling stories and occasionally falling back into fits of laughter that seemed to last for hours. They ate and passed around a bottle of wine, which only made the edges fuzzier. As George took the final gulp from the wine bottle, feeling it warm his esophagus on the way down, he told himself that this must be what Heaven was supposed to be like.
On the couch, John and Bob had engaged in a battle of wits, telling deadpan half-truths back and forth as quickly as possible. “We’re all orphans, y’know.” “Really? So am I.” “Ah, so ye understand what it’s like, sellin’ yer siblings for food.” “Never sold a sibling, but I was a gay-for-pay prostitute for a while.” “Cheeky, workin’ the streets.” “Yeah, down in New Mexico. You cats been there yet?” “‘Course, we get all our happy pills from there!” “It’s a big heroin market too, y’know. Used to be a big fan of that stuff.” “Ye don't look like a junkie!” “I bet I don’t look like a circus freak either, but guess what?” “We found Ringo at the circus! He was in a little cage, the poor lad.” “Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.” “Yeats?” “Shit, you know it?”
All the while, Paul couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of John - and remarkably, John was the last one to notice it. When he finally did, his cheeks quickly turned a bright red color, and a gentle and shy smile betrayed the walls he had put up all night.
“Paul,” He muttered.
Paul smiled dreamily at him. “Yeh?”
John blinked slowly. “Yer starin’ at me.”
Paul tilted his head innocently, sleepily. “You’re just so interesting looking,” Paul’s voice floated.
John yelped out a laugh, breaking through the reverie. “That’s got to be one of the worst compliments I've ever heard, Macca,” He managed through the giggles, and Paul pouted at him.
“It’s true,” Bob interjected, and everyone turned to look at him. “You’re all very interesting looking. Like paintings.” He dug a half smoked cigarette out of his pocket to smoke.
John shrugged, amused. “Better than lookin’ like a bunch of cripples, I guess,” He sneered quietly.
Bob tilted his head slightly, blowing smoke towards John. “One of my best friends is a cripple,” He said flatly. George raised an eyebrow.
John barked out a laugh, taking Bob’s statement as another deadpan half-truth. “All of my friends are cripples, son,” He jeered back. He kept snickering to himself as he stood from the couch and turned away. “Ye hear that, Brian? We should commission some paintings of the four of us!” John hung his arm around Brian, leaning in close, playing a tease. “One of you, too. Yer a handsome man, Bri,” John said, sultry and low. Brian swallowed. John smiled, but his eyes were empty: George couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for Mr. Epstein. He hoped he would never have to know what it felt like to be in love with someone who he could never have.
Brian nodded and smiled politely up at John. “I think it’s a fine idea,” He said gently. Albert was looking at John quite strangely, and the sense that John was on the verge of making a bad decision was looming. Much to everyone's relief, John simply smiled, contented, and came slinking back to sit with the others.
By the time he returned, Paul had gotten his hands on his guitar, unable to stay away for too long. Incredibly enough, Paul was actually better at playing the guitar when he was out of his mind, as if the only thing inhibiting him otherwise was his own consciousness. Semi-consious, though, and Paul’s eyes fluttered shut, his fingers gliding smoothly up and down the neck of the guitar: no resistance, no hesitation, no worries. Just music. George was sure had never seen him so relaxed in the entire time he had known him. It occurred to George, then, that he had known Paul for ten years, had known him before he had ever even had a sip of a beer, and a deep fondness rushed over him.
Before he could get too soft, Bob spoke again. “Didn’t know you were left-handed,” He said, and when Paul didn’t seem to take any notice, John smiled and nodded for him, his demeanor already much softer than it had been just minutes before.
“Thought his guitar was turned over the wrong way when I met ‘im,” He scrunched his nose up a bit, “Called him daft for it.” They all fell silent then, just listening to the music for a while, letting the sound of the acoustic guitar fill the space and carry them somewhere else entirely.
Eventually things rolled into a nice lull. Ringo went and sat at the little table in the corner with his head down, quietly snoring. Brian sat with him, smoking and watching over him like a loving father watching a sleeping child. Albert had laid on one of the couches and had promptly fallen asleep, muttering for Bob to wake him when it was time to go, and Al Aronowitz had slipped out quietly sometime earlier in the night. John and Paul were out on the balcony, sharing a cigarette and talking softly to one another, starlight shining in through the windows. George couldn’t help but smile - everything was so peaceful, calm. Things hadn’t been so nice in a while.
Bob came and sat next to George on the couch, offering him a cigarette that he gladly took. Dylan dug for his matchbook and stuck one, held it out for George, and George leaned in gratefully. The glow of the cigarette illuminated their faces together in the dim suite, turning everything between them a dusty rose color. He took a long drag on his cigarette, aware that Bob was watching him but unable to summon the strength to wonder why. Besides, he was more than happy to let Dylan play voyeur for a little while: it was something John did, sometimes completely unaware that he was doing so, and George had grown comfortable with it. Eventually, he looked over at Bob with a crooked smirk across his face. The grass had made him feel loose, airy, and he giggled a bit as Bob side eyed him, a smirk growing on his lips.
“Tell me.”
“You tell me,” George drawled, a bit camp, “Yer the one lookin’ at me like yer gonna take a bite.”
Bob smiled, full and genuine. “The expression on your face was interesting,” he said plainly, and George laughed a bit.
“Like a painting?” He teased. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, watching Bob watching him.
“Yeah,” Bob said simply. George pretended like he couldn’t feel the blush creeping up over his face. As he blew the smoke from his mouth, Bob tilted his head gently and breathed out with him, “Oh, dear sweet rosy unattainable desire.” George looked curiously at Bob, who smiled softly. “The look on your face...it reminded me of that poem.”
“Asphodel by Ginsberg,” George mumbled, passing the cigarette over.
Bob’s eyes shined. “You know it?”
He looked so pleased that it made George shy to admit the truth. “Not really. I don’t know much about poetry or any of that, it’s more John and Paul’s thing.” He chewed his lip. “Actually, we had a mate called Stu who was a real artist, beatnik type. That was one of his favorite writings.” George paused, a wry smile coming over his face. “John always called it 'faggy' behind his back, though.”
Bob laughed quietly. “He’s not so wrong,” he drawled. “I bet he calls my stuff ‘faggy’ too, huh?”
That made George frown again. “Everything you write is so great,“ he said, a bit defensive. “‘And the silent night will shatter from the sounds inside my mind.’ Or, ‘It looks like it’s dyin’ and it’s hardly been born.’ I don’t think John could ever write something like that.” It only felt natural to tell him how he felt, to defend the work that they had all been inspired by. Everything felt so natural around Bob, like he had known him for years.
“You know my songs better than I do,” Bob chuckled, surprised: in fact, he looked quite pleased. He passed the cigarette back to George. “But don’t flatter me. Do you even know who you are? You guys are taking over the whole world!”
George smiled for a moment before it actually sunk in. He frowned a bit, staring down at the calluses on his fingers. “‘S good and all, but I don’t feel like I’m him. I mean…Beatle George Harrison, in all the papers. It seems that he’s some other person. I’m just George.” He paused. 'Do you even know who you are?' Perhaps George really didn’t know at all. He sighed and shook his head a little, trying to shake off the uneasiness. “Anyway, I wasn’t talking about fame. It’s what you write…it means something.” He shrugged and pulled on the cigarette he’d left burning between his fingers before passing it back. “We don’t write songs like that.”
“You could,” Bob said, like it was just that easy.
“They could,” He said bitterly, and with a quickness that left him unable to bite it back. Bob raised his eyebrows and glanced out to where John and Paul stood.
“Come on, now, don’t give them all the credit. Didn’t you write…ah, what was it - ‘Don’t Bother Me?’”
George felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. He looked at his shoes. “D’ye think we lie about who wrote the numbers?” The words came out calloused.
Bob tilted his head down and peered up at George, an amused little smile on his face. “You should never assume anyone is telling you the truth, my friend,” He said lowly. George just blankly stared back at him, which only seemed to amuse him further. He took a drag off of his cigarette. “Anyway, I was trying to say - It’s the best song on the record.”
George peered up, unamused and disbelieving. Bob smiled, something genuine shining through, and it softened George a bit. Bob passed the cigarette back to him. “Seriously. I wish I could hear more of your stuff.”
George looked out the window to where John and Paul still stood, so close that their sides pressed together. He swallowed and then took a long drag from the ciggie before he cleared his throat to speak. “Could I play you a song, then? Something I've been writing? I want someone else's opinion, but...” He paused. “…not from Lennon-McCartney.”
Bob tilted his head a bit. “You don’t trust them?” He smiled cheekily, sarcasm touching the ends of his words, “Some people call those two ‘musical geniuses,’ y’know.”
George rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He once again turned a bit to look at where they stood on the balcony. “Sometimes they don’t pay much attention to anyone but each other, y’know?”
Bob chewed on his lip and nodded sympathetically. He twisted and grabbed George’s guitar, which had been resting on the back of the couch, and handed it to him. “Let’s hear it, then. I’ll tell ya if it’s any good or not.”
He was a bit anxious to play in front of Bob, especially while he was so far from sober. He knew he could play the guitar just as well as Bob, but his lyrical skills left much to be desired, and he was well aware of it. Still, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get Bob Dylan’s opinion. With a deep breath, he began to play the guitar.
“You don’t realize how much I need you…love you all the time, never leave you…”
Images of the girl he was writing the song for filled his head as he played, golden hair and lavender eyes surrounding him, making his head swim - she was everything George had ever dreamed of. He knew the lyrics he had written weren’t perfect, but she was. He only wished he could capture it with words. And sure, there seemed to be lots of nice, pretty girls in the world who wanted a go at him - but Pattie was his. A girl he could share a laugh with. A girl who seemed to know just what he was thinking. A girl who really loved him, really. Pattie was his.
“So come on back and see just what you mean to me…I need you.”
When he was finished, a loud cheer came from the corner, startling George. He turned his head quickly to see Ringo had woken up and was clapping and whooping in support. Brian, too, was politely clapping and smiling at him, nodding in encouragement. George couldn’t help the toothy grin that spread over his face. “It’s not finished yet,” He said, “I’m not too good at actually finishing songs, so…that’s what I’ve got.”
Bob twisted his mouth up in thought for a second. Then, he reached for George’s guitar, taking it from him gently and strumming quietly until he found the notes and chords George had been using. “I dig it, man. It’s sweet…but it needs conflict,” he said, not looking up, “Love ain’t all milk and honey. That’s what I liked s’much about your first one.” George nodded, and Bob’s strumming on the guitar slowed suddenly, a slight shyness spreading over his face. It was a look which George would have never expected to see on Dylan. “Uh…sorry man,” He laughed lightly, gripping the guitar, “Never been too good in front of people, all up close like this.”
George smiled gently, warmly. “Me either,” He admitted. He scooted closer and spoke, hushed and playful, “Let’s run away, just you and I. No other people to deal with.” He grinned goofily, and Bob grinned with him, just as wide.
“What would we eat?” His voice was gravelly, almost too curious, like he was taking the idea seriously. It made George’s heart flutter a bit in his chest, and he suddenly realized the dizzyingly close proximity between them.
“Whatever we could grow or steal,” George reasoned quietly, a slight shrug on his shoulders, mischief in his eyes, “We could sail to an island somewhere, change our names.”
George almost didn’t catch the way Bob’s eyes wandered over his face, down his body. Almost. The air between them began to rapidly grow thick with danger. George’s chest felt warm. “A mythology he cannot inherit,” Bob muttered, his smile far away. “Nostalgias of another life.”
Before things came to any sort of breaking point, they each leaned back, letting themselves imagine the island life for a moment - George could nearly feel the breeze. There was an easy silence between them for a while before anyone spoke again: Ringo had fallen back asleep and Brian had dozed off with him, head in his own hand. John and Paul still stood out on the balcony chain smoking, though they didn’t seem to be talking anymore - in front of them, the morning light was already beginning to peek over the horizon. George fished a fresh ciggie from the pack in his pocket, and by the time it was in his mouth, Bob was already holding out a match for him. He hummed appreciatively and leaned in, wishing he could live in the rose colored light that emanated from the flame. Oh, sweet rosy unattainable desire. Bob lit a cigarette of his own before he shook out the match, and George smiled a sideways smile at him as their smoke mingled and danced in the air.
“Can I ask ye something?”
Bob cocked an eyebrow. “No,” He said, sharp and plain, but he immediately followed it with a cheeky grin. “Go ahead.”
“How did you end up here? I mean, how come ye didn’t up up being a poet in Greece or somethin’ else?”
Bob’s face twisted up a bit at that. “Could ask you or any other musician the same exact thing,” He said, a bit guarded, “Why aren’t we all just beat poets in Greece?”
His tone was sharp, and George was worried for a moment that he’d said something wrong. After a moment, though, Bob softened and shook his head a little. “It’s just the music, man. That’s all there is to say about it.”
George nodded. Bob was right, nothing else needed to be said to explain it: It’s the music. The feeling of holding a guitar and knowing how to use it, how to make the notes bend and harmonize. The adrenaline of being up on a stage with your instrument in your hands, the undeniable rush when the crowd begins to scream your name. “I get it,” He said softly, “I guess that’s why we all ended up here, too. Was sort of a stupid question, really.”
Bob turned his head to George, an amused smile on his lips. “In return, I get to ask you a stupid question,” He said, making George chuckle a bit. He lifted his wrist and pointed towards John. “Is he always such a dick?”
George exhaled sharply through his nose in surprise, a big fond smile spreading over his face. “Yeh,” He said on the end of a giggle. “He was actually very well behaved tonight, believe it or not.” He looked out to where John stood, eyeing the tension ever present in his friend's shoulders. When he spoke again, it came out warm and gentle. “He’s alright, really. Soft inside…we all love him, y’know?”
Bob smiled. “I do.” He looked down at his own hands for a moment. “What the four of you guys share is real. You should try and hang on to that.”
After a short silence, George turned back to Bob. “D’ye really have a crippled friend?” George wasn’t really sure why he felt the need to ask about it. After a pause, Bob sighed through his nose.
“Yes,” He said slowly, “But it’s not something I talk about often.” George nodded slowly, quiet. Bob gave him a sharp sideways glance, but a smile tugged at his lips. “His name is Larry. Great singer.” A pause. “Great friend.” Another pause.
“Do you really listen to my music?”
The question itself caught George off guard, but his tone was even stranger. He sounded meek, vulnerable. George scoffed. “Erm, yeah,” He laughed lightly, and a bit of relief drifted over Bob’s features. George leaned over, his shoulder bumping up against Bob’s. “Got all of yer records. Wasn’t gonna tell ye this,” He muttered lowly, “But I’m actually probably one of yer biggest fans. Been tryin’ to convince the others to let me cover ‘Boots Of Spanish Leather,’ or maybe ‘Girl From The North Country.’ They’re both love songs, so…”
George grinned lazily at Bob, reveling in the way the dusty morning sun revealed Bob’s face. Bob beamed back at him. “You know what, kid?” George usually couldn’t stand being called ‘kid’ or anything similar to it, but it felt far more endearing when Bob was the one saying it, even though they were nearly the same age. Bob nudged his shoulder playfully. “I think you’re my favorite Beatle.” George couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Bob Dylan picking a ‘favorite Beatle,’ although he also couldn’t help but feel a bit flustered as well. It was strange - the idea of picking a ‘favorite’ had always seemed so arbitrary and downright silly to George, and yet he couldn’t help the wave of competitive fire and pride that washed over him.
“Thought your favorite was John,” George said, and when it came out sounding a bit too serious, he added on, “he’s meant to be the ‘Smart Beatle,’ y’know. Knows all the Ginsberg and Yeats.”
Bob sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Ah, Lennon’s alright - but you,” he smiled at George, “You’re somethin’ else. Feel like I’ve known you a long time.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, humming the tune George had played, and George felt his ears warm up. Bob peaked at George with one eye, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s gonna be a great song,” he said warmly. George decided to believe him.
Bob stood then and stretched a bit. With the sun coming over the skyline, it was certainly time for all of them to finally crawl into bed. George stood with him, his intention being, obviously, to walk Bob to the door, and Bob cocked an eyebrow up at him. “What a gentleman,” he said, and George smiled a toothy smile in reply. “Come on, Al,” Bob growled, kicking Albert’s boot to wake him, “Sun’s comin’ up.” Albert grumbled and rubbed at his eyes, getting to his feet as quickly as possible. George opened the door for them, and as Bob slipped by, they were so close that their chests nearly brushed together - George could even smell the wine and weed lingering on his breath. He passed George a tiny folded piece of paper and winked at him.
“Keep in touch,” Bob said, leaning into him even closer, “Sincerely.” He stepped back and waved his hand as he and Albert turned away and walked down the dim corridor.
George smiled and waved back, feeling warm all over. When the door closed behind them, everything suddenly felt unusually calm and quiet, save for Ringo’s gentle snoring. George shuffled over to the couch and fell back into it, lying his head down where Bob’s lap had just been. As he drifted off, he retraced the events of the night, retraced Dylan’s face over and over again in his mind without being fully aware that he was doing so. He didn’t sleep for long before they were all awoken once more, the start of another long day on the road - but while he slept, he dreamt of he and Bob on an island somewhere, feeling instinctively that they had lived there together for thousands of years, playing their guitars and bathing in the sunshine.