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harrisonarchive · 3 years

Photo

Bob Dylan and George Harrison, Woodstock, November 1968 (photo by Jill Krementz); George and Bob at the Concert for Bangladesh (photographer unnamed, from a July 2017 auction listing); Sara and Bob Dylan, and George and Olivia at Paul and Linda McCartney's Venus and Mars party, Long Beach, California, 24 March 1975 (photo by Harry Benson); George and Bob at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony, 20 January 1988 (photo by David McGough).

An appreciation of the Harrison-Dylan friendship. (The Isle of Wight Festival of 1969 will be featured in separate posts soon. Likewise, the Traveling Wilburys as they pertain to that friendship, and the friendships between George and Tom Petty et al. will be covered separately and in-depth in a big Wilburys special soon.)

“I think his voice is great, I love that sort of madness. And as a person he’s somebody who — well, as he said, ‘Time will tell who has fell and who’s been left behind.’ Bob is still out there and whether you like him or not he’s Bob. I’ve always listened to his music. I’m thankful there’s people like that.” - George Harrison, Musician, March 1990

“[George] quoted Dylan. (Laughs) All the time! George could always find a Dylan quote to fit just about any situation.” - Tom Petty, MOJO, November 2011

“They had a soul connection.” - Olivia Harrison, Rolling Stone, 15 September 2011

“George used to always say that if ever you are not feeling right, you should listen to Bob Dylan’s ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’ and [Hariprasad Chaurasia, Shivkumar Sharma and Brij Bhushan Kabra’s] ‘Call of the Valley.’” - Olivia Harrison, The Hollywood Reporter, 22 October 2011

“If Dylan hadn’t said some of the things he did, nobody else was going to say them. Can you imagine what a world it would be if we didn’t have a Bob Dylan? It would be awful.” - George Harrison, It’s Not Only Rock ‘n’ Roll

“I’m a huge Bob Dylan fan and I’ve got all his records and I’ve always liked him and I’ll like him and go on liking him regardless.” - George Harrison, Wanted Man: In Search of Bob Dylan

“I mean, you tell me one person other than Bob Dylan who has a moral message in a tune that’s improved upon Bob’s words in his song ‘Every Grain of Sand’: ‘Don’t have the inclination to look back on any mistakes/Like Cain I now behold this chain of events that I must break/In the fury of the moment I can see the Masters hand/In every leaf that trembles/In every grain of sand/Oh the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yester-year/Like criminals they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer/…I gaze into the doorway of temptations angry flame/And every time I pass that way/I always hear my name/Then onward in my journey/I come to understand/That every grain is numbered/Like every grain of sand.’” - George Harrison, Billboard, 19 June 1999 (x)

Q: “Tell me about George Harrison.” Bob Dylan: “George got stuck with being the Beatle that had to fight to get songs on records because of Lennon and McCartney. Well, who wouldn’t get stuck? If George had had his own group and was writing his own songs back then, he’d have been probably just as big as anybody. George had an uncanny ability to just play chords that didn’t seem to be connected in any kind of way and come up with a melody and a song. I don’t know anybody else who could do that, either. What can I tell you? He was from that old line of playing where every note was a note to be counted.” Q: “You were very close, right?” BD: “Yeah.” - Rolling Stone, 3-17 May 2007 (x)

“I was with Bob and he’d gone through his broken neck period and was being very quiet, and he didn’t have much confidence anyhow — that’s the feeling I got with him in Woodstock [in November 1968]. He hardly said a word for a couple of days. Anyway, we finally got the guitars out and it loosened things up a bit. It was really a nice time with all his kids around, and we were just playing. It was near Thanksgiving. […] I was saying to him, ‘You write incredible lyrics,’ and he was saying, ‘How do you write those tunes?’ So I was just showing him chords like crazy. Chords, because he tended just to play a lot of basic chords and move a capo up and down. And I was saying, ‘Come on, write me some words,’ and he was scribbling words down. And it just killed me because he’d been doing all these sensational lyrics. And he wrote, ‘All I have is yours/ All you see is mine/ And I’m glad to hold you in my arms/ I’d have you anytime.’ The idea of Dylan writing something, like, so very simple.” - George Harrison, Crawdaddy, February 1977 (x)

“You know, they say in this life, you have to perfect one human relationship in order to really love God. You practice loving God by loving another human, and by giving unconditional love. George’s most important relationships were really conducted through their music and their lyrics. I mean, George... ‘I’d Have You Anytime,’ the song that George and Bob wrote together. ‘Let me in here, I know I’ve been here, let me into your heart.’ He was talking directly to Bob because he’d seen Bob, and then he’d seen Bob another time and he didn’t seem as open. And so, that was his way of saying, ‘Let me in here. Let me into your heart.’ And he was very unabashed, and romantic about it, in a sense. You know, I found that he was very... he had these love relationships with his friends. He loved them.” - Olivia Harrison, Living In The Material World (x)

Tom Petty: “George quoted Bob like people quote Scripture. Bob really adored George, too. George used to hang over the balcony videoing Bob while Bob wasn’t aware of it. Bob would be sitting at the piano playing, and George would tape it and listen to it all night.” Q: “So George had his own private Dylan bootlegs?” TP: “Yeah. One day George was hiding in the hedge at the house we were recording [The Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1]. As everybody flew off, George would rise up out of the bushes with his video going.” - Rolling Stone, 17 January 2002 (x)

“He was a giant, a great, great soul, with all the humanity, all the wit and humor, all the wisdom, the spirituality, the common sense of a man and compassion for people. He inspired love and had the strength of a hundred men. He was like the sun, the flowers and the moon, and we will miss him enormously. The world is a profoundly emptier place without him.” - Bob Dylan, Rolling Stone, 17 January 2002 (x)

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 2 years

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tuesday again 5/9/22

death to all callery pears but especially the one right outside my home office window

listening a pair of wistful little things about the passage of time, bc i am pre-grieving the evil lair and will probably take a week off the tuesdayposts the last week of the month and if i do not have fifty-two songs in the playlist at the end of the year my brain gets displeased

mr wriggle by cosmo sheldrake (mr jukes edit). now if you held a gun to my head and asked me to describe this song, this is somewhere between droll and whimsical. like instead of early aughts whimsigoth it’s whimsi-cottagecore? a rare instance of liking the remix better than the original- mr jukes had a very light hand here by getting rid of a vocal i find irritating. it sounds brighter? hope that helps. “put some pickles on/play the mellotron” YES mr sheldrake you’ve rhymed a silly pairing of words you’ve done it again!!! this sounds perhaps condescending but i do think he is a rare example of a lyricist who really loves playing with words and mouthfeel. how did i find this: poking through back catalogues while in the video game data mines, i think @maverick-ornithography originally turned me onto mr sheldrake

youtube

also, castle in the clouds by cut worms, off an "acid western” playlist from tiktok that is full of goddamn bangers. ideal uptempo but non-distracting work music. upsetting how quickly tiktok has dialed into my interests.

anyway this song was released in 2020 and borrows from the late sixties country sound with a fascinating inexplicable reference to the song house of blue lights (here is my favorite cover by ella mae morse)??? one of the youtube commenters described the vocalist as george harrison-esque and that’s not Wrong, but it’s a little more mellow. the music video has charmed me beyond belief with a collage of late fifties/early sixties footage of america telling stories about itself (I KNOW. I KNOW. OKAY. I AM A WEAK AND PREDICTABLE WOMAN).

i really really love the way the phrase “castle in the clouds” comes in on the chorus, almost as an aside? this is a song made for any number of blorbos

And when you look to see what’s inside Oh no it’s true I can’t believe Oh no it’s you Haven’t I seen you before

youtube

reading chainsaw man, a shonen...horror? workplace comedy? bureaucratic malevolence? manga. occasionally i get the urge to read something that’s gross but not necessarily scary. vampirella comes to mind. hellboy and spinoffs do a very good prickling dread but aren’t necessarily scary either. read through All of hellboy but not all of the brpd in the summer of 2019 when i was stuck in the worst internship ever, probably due for a reread.

this is teens being gross the manga, a lot of it makes me suck air through my teeth but it got me to care about several characters Real quick. like look at this girl. this loud rowdy girl in a suit who is So bad at lying. i want to see her grow up big and strong

how did i find it: don’t worry about it

watching hey did you see the new us chemical safety board video

youtube

playing breath of the wild! i would say that this lava section of the map can go straight to hell but it (and i) are already there.

making acquired this Object out of a free pile (same one as the brass lamp several weeks ago) and have been trying to figure out a use for it, bc i do like my containers to contain something, and fuck it idk onion holder now. everything is permitted

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #i want to rip my sinuses out of my face

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howl-fantasies · 3 years

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----- Gotham - Iceberg lounge - 2AM -----

Oswald seriously started to bug you. Since you were able to walk normally again, he invited you to his club "As An ApOlOgY" for what he ordered Victor to do: shoot your ankle then break it.

You were suspicious at first, about his sudden humanity but... Meh... You were bored and decided to go anyway. Plus, if the Penguin tried anything, you were capable enough to shoot him in the knee and put an entire jar of salt, or his entire stock of lemons in his fresh injury.

"I sent Barbara, Tabitha and Selina to get Ed and bring him here", he said. Obviously, he wanted to talk about his deep infatuation for the Riddler. After all, you were - after his housekeeper - the only one able to endure his never ending fantasies about Ed.

"And? What are you gonna do, Oswald? Propose him?" You mocked. You saw his flaring nostril and chuckled.

"Of course not you imbecile! I'm gonna freeze him again and put him back here as the master piece of my club!" He yelled.

You sighed, rolling your eyes and playing with the ice in your whiskey. "Are you sure you want him out of the picture again? I mean, it's not like he'll be a real threat to you since he's... You know... Kind of regressing."

Cobblepot seemed to think about it a moment before he sighed too. "I miss old Ed and our old complicity..." He finally admitted.

You chew your cheek hard. What the hell were you doing here playing therapist with the lunatic who wanted you dead a few weeks ago? You hummed quietly, contemplating the reasons of your presence here.

You knew Oswald since he started to work with Fish Mooney. You remembered perfectly his lean form limping around the woman, holding her umbrella. You never felt sorry for him, truth be told, you saw on your first encounter that this strange little man had more in his guts than most of the mobster you knew. So you kept tracks with his shenanigans and at the end of the day, he didn't disappoint.

You respected Cobblepot. In a wary rogue way. His cunning and sly personality was lethal and it would have been stupid of you to only see him as a child man throwing tantrums at least once a day. Oswald was dangerous.

"Y/N !" You heard him yell. You blinked twice and tilted your head on your right shoulder. "Yes?"

"AGAIN! YOU'RE MAKING THE ZSASZ'S: I DUNNO I WASN'T LISTENING FACE!" Oh. That face. Yeah. Victor and you had that in common too.

"Oopsie?" You asked making yourself look dumb and theatrically shrug your shoulders. Oswald gritted his teeth hard but sighed like he resigned himself. "How are Zsasz and you able to be so close without killing each other?"

Oh dear. Now you're his couple therapist... You sighed deeply too, but couldn't deny his lost and pitiful face. "Look, Oswald. Your main problem with Ed is the lack of communication between the two of you."

Penguin looked dumbfounded a second, then started to frown hard. "We do communicate, we even worked together, remember? And we made one hell of a team, let me tell you."

Wonderful. He had decided to be difficult. "You need to create a set of rules with him. Like: we can be temporary foes, except at home, in front of the milkshake truck, and not during Nights Fevers at the club. See what I'm talking about?"

His face was priceless. Oswald looked like he was about to puke in his own mouth. "Oh my god, that's so ridiculously cheesy. Disgusting."

You shrugged. "Eh... You asked mate. I gave you the key to a healthy relationship with your dear friends, in a... Gotham speaking way."

Oswald pouted a little and then look at you again. "What is your level of complicity with Victor exactly? Like, are you finishing each other sentences or other stupid cheesy things like this?"

Oh dear lord, please send me patience with this one, you thought, or you'll lose it. Ok. Time to demonstrate. You shifted a bit to sit right next to him and opened your phone, clicking on Zsasz's name.

------ New Message -----

Y/N

Victor Zsasz

Y/N

Victor Zsasz

Y/N

👍👌. ⌛->🌂🍸

Victor Zsasz

👍👍

You turned just in time to see Oswald's livid face. "See, he's on his way" you said with a stupid grin. Penguin blinked twice and nods. "I don't know if I should be amazed or bang my head hard on the bar to forget what I've just seen, Y/N".

You shrugged once. "Again, you asked." Cobblepot nods. "It's true what they said. Curiosity kills the cat" He raised from his sit. "Now if you would excuse me a minute, I'm gonna puke."

You just wave your hand saying ok and gulped down the rest of your drink. Five minutes later, you heard a shifting noise in the back of the club but didn't turn, until two hands in leather gloves were put on your shoulders. "Hi~", purred their owner in your ear, making you repress a shiver. "you were fast dear", you said, turning to him with one of your mischievous grins.

He matches yours and lean on the bar to grab a bottle of water. "That's not what she said." You burst into laughter at that. "No, indeed", you finally purred too, leaning against his torso and giving him a perfect angle to kiss the top of your head.

"Oh dear lord, I'm gonna puke again!" Screamed Oswald's voice on your left.

"Again, Oswald. You-"

"Asked! YEAH! I KNOW! And trust me I'm deeply regretting it! Now get out of my club you two make me sick!"

You snorted loud but obeyed his order and took Victor's tie to pull him with you out of the room.

"Bye Boss~", he waved in a good-natured way, following you out.

"What was that?" Victor finally asked when you were outside of the building. "Simply gave him some relationship advices and I may have rub a bit of fictional marital bliss in his face."

Zsasz grinned wide. "Love it, when you bully your little classmates sweetness." Then he frowned a bit. "But next time, wait for me before making them puke and permanently traumatized them. I want to see it. "

#victor zsasz imagine #victor zsasz x reader #gotham imagine #victor zsasz #gotham #gotham x reader #oswald copplepot #Spotify #SoundCloud #gotham fox

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wonder-womans-ex · 4 years

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‘Cause Boy I was Made for You

By wonder-womans-ex for @inloveoknutzy Sweater Weather secret santa exchange 2020

When Remus Lupin was eleven years old, he learned about soulmates.

“Almost everyone gets a soulmark on their nineteenth birthday,” Mr. Holliday, his fifth-grade teacher, had explained. “A design, like a tattoo, on their left wrist. And out there, somewhere, someone will have a matching one.

“Some people don’t get them until later—no one knows why. Some don’t get them at all. It’s rare, but some people have more than one soulmate, or their soulmate changes.

“Can anyone tell me why this might be?”

Trust a teacher to turn this into a lesson, Remus thought, and put up his hand.

“Because people change, and the person who your soul matches could change, too?”

“Very good, Mr. Lupin.”

***

When Sirius Black was eleven years old, his parents kept him home from school. Instead, they sat him down at the dining room table—which was only ever used for special occasions; he couldn’t fathom why this might be considered one—and told him three things.

“One,” Walburga said, bony fingers and long nails that reminded Sirius of talons drumming on the centuries-old wood, “your career comes first. Always. No matter who your soulmate turns out to be or how you feel about it, you are expected to make the choice that benefits yourself and your role in this family.”

“Two,” Orion put in, “you are the only person who can prove who your soulmate is. If the reality is something that puts your future or your reputation at risk, lying is the best option. Remember, listen to your head, not your wrist.”

“Three—” this was Walburga again, “—your soulmark, when you get it, will remain covered at all times. No one else is permitted to see it. Are we clear?”

Sirius nodded.

“Speak up!”

“Yes, Mother. Yes, Father.”

***

When Remus Lupin was thirteen years old, he had his first kiss. It was with a girl from his first aid course to whom he’d never really talked before, and it was wet and clumsy and didn’t taste very nice. In six years when he got his soulmark, he probably wouldn’t even remember her name.

***

When Sirius Black was thirteen years old, he fell asleep in math class twice. He’d spent the entire night practicing—under his father’s instructions, of course—and the words in the textbook began to swim in front of his eyes.

His mother slapped him across the cheek when she found out. Though he told no one for a very long time, that was when he started drinking coffee.

***

When Remus Lupin was fifteen years old, he googled what if your soulmate doesn’t love you.

***

When Sirius Black was fifteen years old, he found out what it was like to be famous. He enjoyed it, at first. There was so much to enjoy: the attention from his parents, the people who recognized him in public and smiled, and the hockey.

The hockey was everything.

He wouldn’t have thought so, but it was freeing, really, to be on the ice, doing what he loved, and know that the whole world was watching. It showed him he was enough—better than enough. He was the best. He’d been working towards being best his whole life, and now he finally got to feel good about it. What wasn’t to like about that?

Amycus Carrow, apparently. The first guy on his team to notice he was different. “Queer,” he whispered, as Sirius packed his gear up.

Sirius wasn’t sure who he was trying to prove something to by sleeping with Janie Clearwater—Amycus or himself.

***

When Remus Lupin was seventeen years old, he and his mom picked his little brother Julian up from daycare. Jules had a crude drawing of a star on his wrist in green washable marker.

“My teacher has one! So I wanted one too!”

Remus smiled, ruffling Julian’s hair.

That night, he locked his bedroom door and looked up Sirius Black. Video after video of slapshots, passes, interviews, until he finally drifted off to sleep thinking that’s the sort of person I want to be loved by.

***

When Sirius Black was seventeen years old, he had his first panic attack. He wasn’t sure what triggered it; he wasn’t sure how he pulled himself out, but he ran a thumb over the red marks where his fingernails had dug into his skin and tried not to cry.

***

When Remus Lupin was nineteen years old, everything went wrong. He woke up on his birthday to his wrist itching, and it took all his willpower not to look at it. He wasn’t quite ready yet.

It was like Schrödinger’s cat, he reasoned—if he didn’t look, he couldn’t confirm what had been nagging at the back of his head for a while now. He couldn’t deny it, either, but it was better than nothing.

Julian ran to hug him when he got downstairs, grinning to show off his gap-toothed smile. “I got you a present! Wanna know what it is?”

“I think,” Remus told him, “I’m about to find out anyway.”

Two weeks later, Fenrir Greyback approached him in the locker room.

***

When Sirius Black was nineteen years old, he found himself signed to an NHL team he wasn’t supposed to be on and with a soulmark he could make neither head nor tail of: a silver wolf and black dog, intertwined like yin and yang, two crossed hockey sticks behind them. He remembered, distantly, being told that soulmarks were meant to make sense.

The black dog was probably meant to represent him—black dog, dog black (he still hadn’t forgiven his parents for that one)—and the hockey sticks almost definitely had something to do with, well, hockey, but the wolf he had no idea about.

***

It is now that these two stories meet. There is a split second, a fraction of time, and it seems as though the whole world is holding its breath. Will their paths cross, only to continue on their separate ways? Will they travel together for a time, before they are destined to part once more?

“Hello,” says Remus, and when Sirius holds his hand out coldly, their fate is decided.

***

“Pots, c’mere a second!”

Sirius is happy, almost. He’s got the team—he’s one of them, now, really and truly, but there’s something still off. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t want to.

“I’m coming, Captain! Keep your head on!”

James comes to a stop in front of him. “Hi. What do you need?”

“Please poke Dumo.” A few of the guys chuckle, and this makes Sirius smile. He likes making other people laugh.

“What, and you needed me for that? You couldn't do it yourself?”

Finn walks into the room, then, jersey half on. “Why do it at all? What did poor old Dumo do to you, anyway?”

“Yeah,” Pascal says from where he’s sitting by his locker. “Respect your elders!”

“Elder, you say? Edging on retirement, are you?”

“Tais-toi!”

Glancing over to Remus, Sirius allows the barest flicker of a smile to pass over his face. He gets one in return.

“Alright, everyone get moving,” Coach tells them, opening the door and surveying where they’re all arranged, faces like guilty puppies. “You’re paid to play hockey, not sit on your asses and gossip. Practice starts in five minutes, or you run laps around the outside of the rink. In skates.”

Most of them groan, and Kasey downs a Powerade. “Well, boys, that’s my cue.”

James is the next to go, then Finn, then Logan. Leo and Talker continue their argument—something about George Harrison; Sirius isn’t really listening—out onto the ice, and Adam follows them with Olli and Nado close behind. Dumo winks at Sirius before he goes, too, and then it’s just the two of them.

“What did he do?” Remus asks, after Sirius has laced and relaced his left skate three times. “Dumo, I mean.”

“Nothing much. Just… well, if you must know, he put shaving cream in the fridge, once. Guess what I had on my waffles that morning.”

“Waffles aren’t on your diet plan.”

“It was last year.”

“And you waited until now to get James to poke him?”

He knows Remus can see right through him. He always can. “Never question the methods of a hockey player, Loops.”

He meant it as a joke, but Remus stiffens for some reason, jaw clenching and eyes darting away. There’s an awkward pause before Sirius says, “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

“Right.” He clears his throat, trying in vain to find something else to say. He would be lying if he said Remus didn’t mean something to him—he knows it. But, after all, knowing something and acknowledging it are two very different things.

Sirius runs the laps.

***

That night, after practice, Remus is about to head for the bus station when Sirius steps in front of him. He’s walking backwards, even with his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, and Remus isn’t ashamed to say he’s a little impressed. (From a purely objective point of view, of course. It has nothing to do with Sirius and everything to do with the skill it would take, hypothetically, to do such a thing.) (He’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself.)

“Want a lift?”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”

Remus rolls his eyes; he pretends to think about it. “All right,” he says, finally. “On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I get to choose the music.”

Sirius lets out one loud ‘ha!’ It’s the most beautiful thing Remus has heard in a long time. (That would go well: “Oh, I’ve changed my mind. No need to put on the radio, I’ll be content if you just keep laughing.”) (There’s a reason people like him are off to the side, out of sight, instead of right in the spotlight with a microphone.)

Remus is glad that Sirius waits until he’s parked outside Remus’s apartment building to bring up their earlier conversation. It says something that they say “So, about this evening—” in unison, but Remus isn’t going to think about that.

“You go first,” Sirius tells him, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Please.”

“I suppose,” Remus says, slowly, “That I haven’t quite been honest with you. Any of you. I wasn’t always a PT.”

“Of course not. You’re my age. You can’t have always worked for the Lions—before that you were a teenager. A student.”

Remus shakes his head. “No. Before that I was a player.”

“You played? Why’d you stop?”

“Bad hit,” he says, shrugging. “I’m over it. But I… I know what it’s like. The pressure. The rules. So, if you need someone to talk to… just remember—I know what the game does to a guy. You’re not the only one who’s been told to be something you aren’t by someone who forgets you’re a person off the ice, too.

“See you tomorrow, Cap. Thanks for the ride.”

***

Sirius is probably the one person in history who has managed to burn eggs without even turning the stove on.

“How on earth did that happen?” James asks when Sirius phones him.

“I dropped them into the toaster—hey! Stop laughing! It could happen to anyone!”

“Yes,” he hears from the other end of the line, “But it didn’t. It happened to you.”

It takes exactly two minutes and thirty-seven seconds after hanging up on James for Sirius to decide to call Remus. Cooking failures might not have been quite what Remus meant when he said Sirius could talk to him, but it’s the problem at hand right now.

(Remus laughs just as hard as James, but at least he has the decency to apologize for it afterwards.)

“Well,” he says, once he’s calmed down, “What are you going to eat now?”

“I’m not sure. Cereal?”

“Practice is in two and a half hours. You need more than that.”

“I’ll be—”

“If you end that sentence with ‘fine,’ I’ll take the laces out of your skates and strangle you with them. Do you want me to walk you through, I dunno, a pancake?”

“Sure. What do I need?”

“Flour, butter, eggs, milk…”

Twenty minutes later Sirius is left with milk on his shirt, flour in his hair, butter practically everywhere else, and a microwave that won’t start.

“I think,” he tells Remus, “I should have cereal.”

“You are going to eat a pancake if it’s the last thing I do—”

“Why don’t you just come over here and make it for me, then? I’m sure you’ll have more success.”

He holds his breath for a moment, hoping this wasn’t a step too far, before Remus responds. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be over in… half an hour?”

“Sounds good.”

Click.

The instant the call is over, Sirius opens the freezer and grabs one of the popsicles he secretly has stashed there. They’re not part of his diet plan, but he needs one. Then he takes a sponge and starts trying to get the butter out of the sole of his shoe.

***

The first thought that crosses Remus’s mind is that Sirius’s tongue is purple from one of the popsicles he thinks no one knows about. If Remus kissed him, he’d probably taste like grapes. (The thought is banished from his mind the moment it enters.)

“So,” he says, surveying the damage. “I am going to teach you how to make a pancake.”

Sirius, it turns out, is infinitely better at following instructions when they’re simple, and the two of them work out a system quickly. Remus makes the pancake, Sirius gets the ingredients. It works.

“That’s salt, not sugar. Try again.”

(Most of the time, at least.)

“Really?” Sirius is squinting at the package. “Why doesn’t it say so?”

“It does. Right there.”

“How am I supposed to read that?”

“You need glasses, Cap.”

“I have glasses. I just never wear them.”

“What?” This is news to Remus. Visions of Sirius with glasses and bed hair are swimming in front of his eyes. “Why?”

A shrug. “I look stupid.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d be drop-dead gorgeous in anything.”

There’s a beat of silence. Remus realizes that, yes, he said that out loud. “I mean, all those fangirls certainly seem to think so.”

“Right. Yeah.” Sirius clears his throat.

“Anyway, pancakes! I think these are almost ready to cook—can you turn on the element?”

“The what now?”

“The element? The coil on the stove?”

“Should’ve just said that in the first place,” Sirius grumbles. “Fucking Americans.”

“Fucking French.”

Suddenly, Remus has a spatula pointed at his nose. He has to cross his eyes to see it properly. “Say that again; I dare you.”

“Fucking French?”

“Awright, that’s it! En garde, bitch!”

And so begins the great whisk-vs-spatula duel of 2020. There is very little batter left once they’re done—in the bowl, at least. Most of it is on their clothes.

They look at each other. “Cereal?”

“...Cereal.”

***

Kasey’s eyes go wide—almost comically so—when they show up to practice together.

“Cap giving rides?” He says, and Sirius isn’t sure what accent he’s trying to fake but he ends up sounding like a scandalized duchess from the movie adaptation of an Austen knockoff. (Maybe that is what he was going for. It’s hard to know, with Kasey.) “I thought the day would never come.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Remus’s elbow digs into Sirius’s rib cage. “You don’t want to say that. He tried to make me shut up this morning—it’s something I’ll never recover from.”

Sirius almost laughs at the expression Remus makes when he realizes exactly how that sounds.

“He dumped pancake batter down my shirt!”

“You didn’t!” The look on James’s face is aghast. “First the eggs, now this—what will people think?”

Finn looks up from his phone. “Eggs?”

“Sirius here dropped the eggs he was going to eat for breakfast into his—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Dumo slings an arm around his shoulders. “The price you must pay for telling James to poke me yesterday. Learn from this, mon fils. Learn.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, old man.”

“Treachery!”

Shrugging him off, Sirius grins. “I am the kitchen monster. Cross me and I will slaughter you in a food war.”

“Try me.” This is Logan speaking; Sirius hadn’t even realized he was there.

“You’ve been warned!”

***

“Look, there are twenty-two hockey players in this arena, and I ain’t one of them,” Moody says, and Remus can’t be sure, but he thinks Sirius looks at him.

***

“You’re favouring your right leg,” Remus comments as soon as Sirius is off the ice. “Want me to take a look?”

“It’s fine, really—”

“I’ll try again. Want me to take a look?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Loops.”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

They walk into the PT room in businesslike silence, Sirius hoping all the way that one of them will break it. Neither does, and it isn’t until Remus has taken off both his skates for him, now expertly examining his left ankle, that he realizes what he should say.

“You mentioned you played, last night.”

The finger tracing his Achilles tendon stills. “I did.”

“Were you any good?” He knows, somewhere, that he’s entering forbidden territory. He can’t bring himself to care.

“I’d like to believe so.”

“Be honest.” Sirens are blaring in his head. He keeps going.

“There were rumours…” Remus bites his lip, glances away. “People said I was set for first.”

“What? How come you never said anything? C’mon, you need to play with us sometime, just scrimmage or something—”

“Maybe. That hit…”

“Right. God, I’m sorry, Rem.”

If Remus’s Adam’s apple bobs at the nickname, Sirius doesn’t notice. He certainly doesn’t try his best not to jump to conclusions. (Double negative; that’s a yes, a voice that sounds suspiciously like James’s says in his head. Shut up, he tells it.)

“It’s fine. Really. I just don’t like talking about it. And besides, I like this. Working with the team, even if I can’t be a part of it.”

“You are. A part of the team, I mean. Just as much as I am.”

“Sure.”

There’s another awkward pause before Remus clears his throat. “So, I’m gonna put on some anti-inflammatory gel because it’s a little swollen, but don’t get used to it. I want you to keep doing some stretches, not too much pressure. Capeesh?”

“What the fuck is a capeesh?”

“Just say it.”

“...Capeesh?”

“Awesome.”

Remus leans forward towards him, their foreheads almost touching. Sirius’s breath catches.

It’s over just as suddenly. The tube of extra-strength Voltaren is in Remus’s hand, and Sirius feels stupid for thinking he was going to—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

When he feels tears start to prick at his eyes, he glances up at the fluorescent lights overhead; at least then he’ll have an excuse. There’s a moth resting on one. Its wings flutter once, twice, then go still. Fragile things, moths are—maybe it’s died, maybe it hasn’t. He could read into that, but he won’t.

He jumps when the cool of the gel on Remus’s hands touches his foot. “Hey!” He yelps, looking quickly down.

Sirius hates to succumb to cliches, but he would be lying if he was to say his heart doesn’t still.

Because Remus has pulled the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows, and his wrist is turned to the sky—to Sirius, who has seen that mark before somewhere.

Somewhere. He’s kidding himself. He’s seen it every day whenever he bothers to look at his own soulmark, and he’s seeing it again now.

“You know what, I’m fine,” he blurts out, shaking his ankle out of Remus’s grasp. “Thanks, though. See you later, Loops.”

***

Remus stays there for a second, watching Sirius leave. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, and he’s not sure he wants to.

When he gets up to leave, tossing the container towards the first aid kit on the bench and allowing himself a small smile when it lands perfectly inside, blood rushes to his head. He closes his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

And then he crashes into Finn.

“Whoa, sorry,” Remus says, stumbling backwards.

“Nah, don’t stress it. There’s just something I want you to check on.”

Remus is hit by a sense of deja vu. He wonders if Finn, too, is going to leave without explanation. He follows him back into the PT room, Finn gesturing for him to lock the door.

Though he may be the shorter of the two, Remus knows it’s his job to be the bigger person. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Finn waits another moment before yanking one sleeve up to reveal three paw prints, each no bigger than a thumbnail, clustered together—one forest green, one golden, and one a deep navy blue.

“Your soulmark.” Remus doesn’t understand. “What? Is something wrong?”

“There’s three of them,” Finn says. “Which means there’s three of us.”

“You have two soulmates?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fine, Finn. It may not be common, but it’s not unheard of. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not that. It’s… hey, you can’t tell anyone this, okay?”

“I know. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?”

“Right.” Finn takes a breath, squeezing his eyes closed. “What if I told you I know who they are? Or I think I do?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Well, I’d ask you if they knew.”

“And I’d say I don’t think so. One of them’s pretty stubborn—wouldn’t see love if it stood up on the ice and sang the national anthem—and the other isn’t nineteen yet, so he doesn’t—I mean wouldn’t—have his mark yet.”

“His?”

Finn’s eyes widen. There is a pause before he nods, slowly. “Yeah. Got a problem?”

“Trust me, I’m the last person on earth who’d have a problem with something like that. Hypothetically.”

This, at least, earns Remus a smile. “Are you…?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” Another pause. “What if I told you, still hypothetically, that they were both on the team?”

“Then I’d say get the fuck out of here and win them over before they start thinking you’ve forgotten about them.”

Finn, smiling ear to ear, starts to leave. “Wait,” he says, hand on the doorknob. “You said you were…”

“Gay.”

“Yeah. Do—do you know who your soulmate is?”

Remus opens his mouth to say ‘no.’ He really does. But what comes out—when he takes into account the look of recognition on Sirius’s face when Remus had his sleeves rolled up; the understanding that had passed between them outside Remus’s building (god, that was just last night); the way they’ve always just clicked—is most certainly not ‘no.’

“Oh, fuck, I think I do,” he says, and he and Finn run out into the hallway together.

Sirius’s car is pulling out of the parking lot when Remus arrives, out of breath, at the front doors of the arena.

“I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry.” Remus jumps. He hadn’t heard James come to stand beside him. “Just packed up his gear at the speed of light and left. Didn’t even shower; he said he’d do it at home.”

So Sirius had been so appalled—disgusted, even—at Remus being his soulmate that he’d left without explanation, with barely even a goodbye. There was a pleasant thought.

He turns so his back is against the door, sliding slowly down to sit on the floor.

“Y’know,” James says, sitting next to him, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you needed a hug.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence before Remus says, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“I need a hug.”

James gives the best hugs. Everyone says so. But until now, Remus has never been on the receiving end of a true James Potter hug—warm, strong, and friendly as hell. (“I want that on a t-shirt,” James says when Remus tells him so.)

But eventually, James has to go, too, and Remus heads back to the PT room. He passes Logan in the hall, looking like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. Maybe it’s Finn’s doing; he had mentioned that one of them was oblivious. Logan, Remus knows, is the definition of oblivious.

***

“And I think that’s all,” Coach Weasley says, glancing around, “Unless anyone else has something to say? Moody? Cap? Loops?”

“Actually, yes,” says Remus after a moment. “Checkups! Not naming names but Kris lied about his rib acting up so now all of you get to be interrogated.”

Sirius swallows. He’s not anxious to be alone with Remus; not after yesterday. There’s no way there aren’t going to be questions.

Kasey goes first, Remus taking just under five minutes to deem him ‘good to go.’ Kris, surprisingly, is only kept for eight, despite the claim of his ribs acting up again. Finn takes the longest—fifteen minutes—and as soon as he’s out he grabs Logan and Leo by the wrists and marches them off somewhere. Sirius’s turn comes last, right after Pascal’s, who gives him a knowing look as he enters.

“Hi,” Remus says, first aid kit nowhere in sight. “Sit down.”

“Where?” Sirius gets only a shrug in response.

He hesitates a moment, then sits on the floor, picking at the sole of his sneaker.

“How are you feeling?” Remus asks suddenly.

“Fine. Ankle’s not bothering me any more.”

“No, I mean how are you feeling?”

Scoffing, he starts to stand up. “I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sirius Black, sit your ass back down before I make you.”

Sirius sits his ass back down.

“Good. Now, how are you feeling?”

“I’m… confused,” he says, trying to be honest without being specific. “And nervous. And I cried myself to sleep last night, which I haven’t done since I was like seventeen, so there’s that. But mostly I’m just really fucking mad.”

“At me.” It isn’t a question.

“No, not at you! At me! At the—” he gestures wildly. “—Universe, or whatever. Can I go now?”

Remus doesn’t even acknowledge his request. “So you’re disappointed.”

“...Yeah.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m pretty sure you fucking know why.”

“Maybe I do. But I’d like you to explain it to me.”

The stupid thing is that Sirius wants to talk about it. He really does. And Remus is the only person he can conceivably talk about it to. But he still chokes on his words when he says, anger burning his throat, “It was never supposed to be like this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Sirius practically screams. “Stop trying to fucking— psychoalalyze me or something, for fuck’s sake. You fucking asked, and I—” He tears his fingers through his hair, feeling his chest start to constrict. “Just stop talking!”

The echoes of his shouts fade out too quickly, and the only thing worse than the voices is the sound of his breathing getting faster and faster. Remus’s hand twitches, as though he wants to touch him but thinks better of it.

“It was always supposed to be someone different. Someone faceless; nameless. Someone I could run away from. I can’t fucking run away from you, Remus.

“I always thought I could lie. That I could—pretend, or something. Just keep hiding. It was supposed to be someone I could hide from, because I’ve spent my whole life fucking hiding and that’s all I know how to do. It was never supposed to be someone I could fall in love with.”

There’s a choked noise from where Remus is sitting on the bench, but nothing else. Sirius refuses to look at him.

“And I just—I just fucking hate this, because all I’ve been told is that hockey comes before my dreams. And that’s made sense until now because until now hockey was my dream, but now there’s you. Yeah.”

Remus, to his credit, waits until Sirius’s breathing has calmed down and he’s furiously wiped the tears from his eyes to speak. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean forget everything. Forget your family, forget the team, forget me—what do you need?

“Right now? For the rest of my life? Because those are two very different things.”

“Let’s start with now. Can I do anything for you? Can you do anything for yourself?”

“I need a hot chocolate.”

***

They wait until everyone else has gone, and then make their way outside to Sirius’s car. There’s only one other in the parking lot—a grey Toyota Remus thinks belongs to Nado, or maybe Kris. He’s not sure why he thinks it matters, because it doesn’t.

Silence hangs around them the whole four blocks to the nearest Tim Horton’s. Inhale; exhale. Inhale; exhale. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

That doesn’t stop Remus from hoping.

He knows it’s wrong; of course he does. It’s Sirius’s choice, in the end, because Sirius is the one who will be most affected. His career, his life—all on the line if he decides to trust whatever plan the world has in store for them. It’s not like that for Remus. Not anymore.

There’s a parking spot right outside the front door. Sirius pulls into it, but he doesn’t get out right away. He glances around, makes sure there’s no one immediately in sight, and then he looks down to where his hands now rest in in his lap. Slowly, he pulls up his right sleeve to expose, bit by bit, his soulmark.

“I don’t know why I never guessed it could be you—Wolfy McWolf Wolf.”

Remus feels his lips twitch upwards into something resembling a smile. “I could say the same, Dog Black.”

When he puts his hand on the console, Sirius rests his on top of it. It’s not much.

But it’s something.

***

Sirius looks longingly at the Boston cream doughnuts. “Please. I haven’t had one in so long.”

“Think again, Mr. I’m-on-a-diet-plan.”

He’s not surprised. What was he thinking, having his PT as his soulmate? (Well, he wasn’t. He didn’t get to choose. But, he thinks to himself, the point still stands.)

“I’ll have a medium hot chocolate, please, a plain toasted bagel,” Remus looks at him and sighs. “...And a Boston cream doughnut.”

When the food is set down on the pickup counter, Remus snatches it before Sirius has a chance to. “Hey, this is my doughnut.”

Sirius pouts.

“You’re cute. Here.” He tosses him the brown paper bag, and Sirius removes his prize carefully. He‘s going to eat every piece of chocolate glazing if it kills him.

Back out in the car—this is a conversation neither of them is willing to have in the public dining area—Remus chews on his bagel thoughtfully. Sirius tries and fails not to swear when his hot chocolate burns his tongue.

“Shit!”

Remus glances over at him. Their eyes meet for a moment, then both look away. “So,” Sirius says after a while. “I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah.”

Silence, then—

“You go first,” they say at the same time, and laugh. Some of the tension is broken.

Sirius reaches hesitantly to where Remus’s arm rests between the seats. He doesn’t need to voice his question—Remus sees it in his eyes; nods.

Up close, he can see that there are a few differences between their marks. Nothing that could possibly mean they aren’t soulmates—just the discolouring on the dog’s tail; the angle of one of the sticks; the faded white gash that stretches from one side of Remus’s wrist to the other, separating the wolf’s head from its body. Sirius doesn’t quite know what he’s doing when he presses his lips to the scar.

When he looks up, he sees that Remus is trying not to cry. And that’s when he makes his decision.

“I want this,” he says, voice soft but sure. “All of it.”

#sweater weather lumosinlove #coops #soulmate au #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sweater weather secret santa #tw: panic attack

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frodispatch · 2 years

Text

I was perusing the Internet and came across this image, which I believe is from a 2002 issue of Seventeen magazine:

Let’s just highlight some of my favorites things from this:

“Because how else are you gonna carry that 7-inch vinyl?” All I can say to that is, yeah, s’about right.

and of course there’s the shirt “ripped off your little brother’s back”. Like a ton of my more “cropped” shirts are little kids shirts from savers, you don’t need to call me out like this.

Probably some bands from 2002 that I do not know whatsoever but very interesting. Funny thing is in 2013 I got what I called a Walkman but was very clearly a “Discman” like the one here and I listened to the three CDs I was allowed to use which were as follows: *clears throat* “Rockin Songs Mix” or something, but I only listened to Rockin Robin by Bobby Day. The Beatles’s White Album (despite the fact that my favorite was Rubber Soul) because my mom has a Beatles obsession to the point where she went to Liverpool in college just to stand in front of George Harrison’s old house. And, Some Adele CD, it had set fire to the rain, that’s all I remember.

Okay but like I LOVE the Mary Jane docs! Double-strapped too? This kid’s got the good stuff! And judging on the time period these are probably nice quality. Respect.

I have six pairs of converse in various states of disrepair as well as a pair of Vans that are going on five years now. Don’t call me out magazine.

I read “thick frames” and I immediately go “aww like Buddy Holly!” Because I love him with my whole soul but I was NOT prepared for what, OF COURSE, a magazine from 2002 would do and go for the next best thing to Buddy Holly, Rivers Cuomo. Wee-ooh. I cannot put into words how much of a moment I had.

AND OF COURSE! My favorite part other than Weezer,

The 🖤✨🎶 emo 🎶✨🖤 pick up lines!

I’m on Tumblr so I definitely need to use “Do you blog here often?” It’s my favorite thing now, I’m going to end up saying it out loud.

And for all you “ladies”, remember that it’s very easy to confuse a 12-inch vinyl record of the late band Promise Ring with a dick, just a precaution. Also, don’t stick a record in your pocket anyway, it’ll damage it.

#emo #I’m emo I fit the criteria #magazine #random bullshit #this is just funny to me #enjoy #weezer #Buddy Holly #wee ooo i look just like buddy holly #oh oh and your Mary Tyler Moore #I don’t care what they say about us anyway #I don’t care bout that #rivers cuomo #Ayeme en lourve wif en emo gourl

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dcbutinamrev · 3 years

Note

*bonk* i’m also sending you a few prompts for a lams shot :)

26, 28, & 34 perhaps?

Of course bestie!!!

Modern au with of course, their historical appearances. (I'll add 28 and 34 tomorrow- )

26: "I've been in love with you for an embarrassingly long time."

~~~

Nineteen year old high school student and football star and your typical Prince Charming type, whoops and hollers along with his friends who have been with him since Freshman: Richard Kidder Meade, Tench Tilghman, Robert Hanson Harrison, John Fitzgerald along with Benjamin Tallmadge bursts through the Washington Cafe in downtown Manhattan on a clear Friday afternoon.

Eighteen year old Alexander Hamilton sits on a stool behind the counter, waiting for customers to approach to take their orders. He huffs out a breath, glancing around the non-busy cafe, watching customers doing work on their laptops, taking occasional sips of their drinks or munching on their pastries, listening to distant conversation. His foster father, who also happens to be his teacher as well, George Washington would work in the back where the Manager Office is but he's currently finishing up some documentation and paper work at the school, his older foster brother Gilbert Marquis de Lafayette works in the kitchen and takes the orders to the right customers, while Hamilton sits by himself, alone, at the cashier with a violet apron around his black short-sleeved shirt and black jeans. Hamilton's striking dark red hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, a few curls falling in front of his ears and bouncing slightly on his forehead.

"Anything?" Lafayette asks as he pokes his head through the cracked door to the kitchen.

Hamilton shakes his head, resting his cheek in his palm as he turns to gaze out the windows. "Notta."

"Hm," is all Lafayette says before he slams the door shut and continues working.

Hamilton sighs again, shaking his head before finally, out of mere boredom, pulls out his phone from his back pocket, scrolling lazily through his socials.

"Uh...excuse me?" a distinctly southern voice says, snapping Hamilton out of his distant, far off look.

Hamilton yelps with surprise, whipping his head back and forth before finally landing on, let's be honest here, his crush since Freshman--John Laurens--stands before him. Hamilton tenses when he sees the beautiful, angelic man before him. He breathes in slowly, holding his breath when his violet-indigo blue eyes lands on bright summer blue ones.

Is it hot in here or is that just me? Hamilton thinks, furrowing his brows slightly.

"Yes...?" Hamilton asks after a few moments of silence, clicking his phone off before sliding it back into his pocket and turning to face the blonde man before him. Hamilton stares at the man's hair. It's bright, rich in color and looks like silk. Smooth and flowy, almost the color of honey. Hamilton suddenly wishes to touch the boy's hair.

Laurens glances at his friends behind him, who nod encouragingly with unusually bright smiles. Laurens clears his throat, turning back towards Hamilton who now has his arms crossed over his chest and his head tipped back, an eyebrow raised challengingly and expectantly at the same time.

Laurens presses his lips together and scratches the back of his neck. "I um..." He clears his throat. "I um...can I talk with you...for a moment?"

Hamilton hesitates, glancing over his shoulder where he sees Lafayette in the small rectangular window, hissing out a curse in French. Hamilton grimaces when he hears something clatter onto the floor before turning back to Laurens.

"I don't talk to strangers," Hamilton says.

Laurens chuckles. "Cheeky. You know I'm not a stranger, Alexander. I've known you since Freshman. And we're both in the same classes together." A pause. "English--with Mr. Washington--Biology, Calculus, Theatre, Band--"

"I know, John," Hamilton giggles.

"Then why--?"

"You know how my brother is," Hamilton interrupts, leaning forward with his arms crossed over his chest. "Especially with people like you. Even if he knows who you are."

Laurens ticks his eyes at the kitchen door behind Hamilton's shoulders before turning back towards Hamilton, nodding reassuringly. "It'll be quick. I promise."

Hamilton sets his mouth and sets his jaw, giving Laurens a look.

Laurens tosses both hands up. "Just...five minutes. That's all..."

Hamilton glances over his shoulder a second--or third--time before huffing out a breath and nodding, sliding off the stool and following Laurens towards the male's bathroom nonetheless.

Hamilton furrows his brows as he follows Laurens, his brows furrowing together and tensing when he sees Laurens swings open the bathroom door. He's noticed things like this in movies. In his peripheral, he can see Laurens's friends nodding eagerly and flashing him bright smiles with thumbs up.

Laurens slams the door shut after shoving Hamilton into the bathroom. Hamilton stands just a few feet behind Laurens, watching him carefully with his arms crossed still over his chest, an eyebrow raised as he tenses at Laurens's every move.

"Relax, it's not Hollywood," Laurens says, mirroring Hamilton's position and leaning against the white sink. Hamilton simply gives him an untrusting look. Laurens sighs, defeated. "I...I wanted to talk to you. Privately. For a reason."

"And that is...what...to murder me?" Hamilton whispers, taking another step back.

Laurens shakes his head. "No! I told you, Ginger, this isn't Hollywood!"

"Then why else would you have--"

"If you would just shut up, Ginger, and listen to me then perhaps you'll find out yourself," Laurens snaps, raising an eyebrow.

Hamilton rightfully clicks his mouth shut. Laurens nods curtly once.

"Good," Laurens says. "Anyways, I brought you here so I won't make a fool of myself in front of the boys."

Hamilton just simply gapes at him confusedly and suspiciously,

"I um..." Laurens clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. He pulls something from the back of his pocket, causing Hamilton to stiffen. Hamilton relaxes instantly when he sees the boy hand him a simple sheet of paper. "...Happy birthday, Alex..."

Hamilton's birthday was last week, Janurary 11. Hamilton eyes the paper before snatching it from Laurens's hands. He unfolds the crinkling paper and his eyes widen instantly. Laurens smiles as Hamilton holds a small box now and lifts the lid, revealing a necklace.

"It was my mother's..." Laurens says, breaking the silence between them.

Hamilton whips his head sharply at Laurens's direction, his eyes wide as his fingers fiddle with the silver chain, the small silver heart resting in his palm.

"She uh...she told me...that if..." Laurens clears his throat, taking a step closer to Hamilton. "She told me that...that if I...if I had found true love...then...this is theirs."

Hamilton's breath hitches in his throat, making Laurens's small smile grow wider as he nods with confirmation.

"Alexander...Alex...we've been friends for months, years even and...well...since you've walked onto those steps at the school... I uh...I've just been...I don't know...I just--"

Laurens's words are suddenly cut off when he feels soft lips against his. He stiffens, unsure what to do, his shoulders up to his ears and his hands hover in the air by Hamilton's elbows. He stares down at Hamilton wide-eyed, shocked by the sudden action, but melts into his embrace after a few minutes.

Laurens shifts around so both of his hands now rest on Hamilton's hips, shifting around again so he's even more taller than he was before, dipping his head down and at an angle to capture those beautiful soft, pink lips of this unique redheaded boy from the depths of the Caribbean.

Laurens grins when he hears Hamilton sigh lightly as they slowly pull apart, breathing sharply, their foreheads touch, chest nearly touching. Hamilton scoffs out a laugh, tipping his head back up to meet Laurens once more, brushing a loose strand of honey blonde hair behind his ear, resting his hand under Laurens's jaw.

"John--"

"Jack," Laurens says.

"What?" Hamilton gasps, eyebrows high and deep violet eyes dilated.

"Jack," Laurens says again. "My family calls me Jack."

Hamilton feels the corner of his lips quirk up. "Am I family?"

Laurens smiles wide, tucking a loose strand of red hair behind Hamilton's ear. "You...you are something more...than family."

A pause.

"Jack...I...I've been in love with you for an embarrassingly long time..." Hamilton confesses, a shy smile on his face.

Laurens grins, leaning down to steal a kiss.

"So have I."

*Bonus under the cut!*

A few weeks later...

"Uh...John?" Hamilton says as he sits with Laurens and the boys at a table, discussing random things like class work or homework or football or crushes or gamers. Hamilton now sits upon Laurens's lap, Laurens's arms around his waist.

"Hm?" Laurens questions, raising an eyebrow as he rests his chin on the back of Hamilton's shoulder.

"Um...how am I...how are we going to tell Gil about us...?"

"Uh...we won't," Laurens says. "Not unless you're ready, my dear boy."

Hamilton hums, giggling softly before pressing a kiss to Laurens's lips.

Hamilton doesn't know how long it's been since they've began kissing but Hamilton knows they're now almost to the point of making out against the booth, the others groaning, complaining and shielding their eyes, when he hears a sharp shriek.

Hamilton tenses and pulls off, fixing the collar of his shirt before whipping his head over his shoulder to find his brother standing behind him. Hamilton and Laurens both pale.

"JOHN FUCKING LAURENS! Get the fuck off my baby brother right now!" Lafayette barks.

"I'm dead aren't I...?" Laurens whispers into Hamilton's ear.

Hamilton nods, never taking his eyes off of Lafayette's. "You are so dead, babe."

"BABE?!" Lafayette shrieks.

"Well, I'll uh...I'll see you after school, yeah?" Laurens whispers.

Hamilton nods. "Yeah..."

"Keep the change," Laurens says, slapping a twenty into Lafayette's palm before patting his shoulder before bolting out of the door.

Lafayette turns his sharp, intimidating gaze before turning to face Hamilton, who shrinks and grimaces.

"Uh...I can explain?"

Lafayette simply stares at Hamilton, his protective instincts getting the best of him as he mumbles something incoherently under his breath in French before stomping out of the room.

Hamilton let's out a sharp breath.

He has never felt that terrified around his brother before.

Ever.

After a few minutes of silence, Meade breaks it.

"Well...that escalated quickly."

#asks #ask liz #liz writes #prompts #writing promts #historical lams #lams #lams fic #ficlet #fluff #alexander hamilton #john laurens #washington's aides #marquis de lafayette #protective lafayette is yes #bedtime now #i am so exhausted #lee!

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mysweetgeo · 4 years

Text

Do You Want to Know a Secret ? (Part 2)

George Harrison x Female Reader

Summary: Reader and George have been best friends since they were kids, but when The Beatles got big, they were forced apart. What happens when George returns for a couple weeks wanting their friendship to return to normal?

You’d settled on a long white high-waisted skirt with a blue sweater tucked into the waist to wear for dinner with George. Your mother had nearly keeled over when you’d told her.

“How longs it been? Haven’t seen that boy in ages,” she said once her head was on straight.

“Just shy of two years,” you mumbled as you swiped on some mascara, “thought he’d forgotten all about me, if I’m honest.”

Your mother scoffed, “As if he’d ever let you get away.”

You rolled your eyes as you finished your natural makeup look with a soft pink lip colour. “He hasn’t contacted me in nearly two years, mum, he might as well have forgotten me.”

“Obviously he didn’t, if he wanted you to go to dinner so badly,” she muttered as she left the room.

You’d already done your hair in loose curls so you were ready to go, as you looked at the clock and saw it was just about quarter after six.

You still had fifteen minutes to spare so you decided you’d sit in your room and listen to some music to calm your nerves for a bit.

You skimmed your collection, pulling out your copy of Please Please Me and placing it on the turntable.

You’d been too into the music when you heard a voice come from your doorway, “Didn’t peg you as a Beatles fan, I’ve heard they’re quite rubbish.”

You turned on your heel and there stood George, dressed to the nines in a black suit and tie, with a white undershirt.

You practically leapt into George’s arms, “Oh Geo! I’ve missed you!” You said into his neck, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “And for the record, only the guitarist is rubbish,” you joked once you pulled away.

He laughed, “Oh trust me I know.” he said, looking you over. “You get all dressed up for me? What a treat.”

You blushed a light rosy colour, “Well its not every day you get to go out to dinner with a Beatle!”

He smiled, “S’pose you’re right there. Ready to go?”

You nodded and removed the record from the turntable and placed it gently back in the sleeve. “Hey, you think you could sign these for me so I can sell ‘em?” you joked.

He rolled his eyes, “Why anyone would want George Harrison’s signature is beyond me.”

“You’re probably the favourite, you know,” you said as you poked his side, causing him to jump.

“Hey—quit that!” He yelped, trying not to let out a laugh.

You laughed, forgetting how it felt to have him around, “I’ve missed you, Geo,” you murmured.

He looked over to you, a small smile on his face, “I’ve missed you too, love.”

He offered you his hand as he walked you down the steps in your house and held the door for you.

“Mum! I’ll be back later!” You called out to her, not waiting for a reply as you exited your house with George following you.

He held the passenger door open for you, allowing you to get in.

“Ever the gentleman, Mr. Harrison,” you said before he closed the door after you’d sat and buckled.

He got in the driver’s seat and looked over at you before starting up his car, “You look absolutely radiant.”

You blushed again, this time a more fierce red tone coming to your cheeks, “You dont have to flatter me, George.”

“Well of course I do!” he said, resting his hand on your knee as he started up the car and pulled away from the curb.

After a few moments of comfortable silence you spoke again, “Well you have to tell me everything, Geo! How’ve you been? How was Hamburg? What was America like? How-“

“Easy there, one question at a time,” he said, cutting you off with a laugh. “To start, I’m doing quite well, ‘ve got a flat in London, and we’ve been spending a lot of time recording. America was kind of loud, bit too much for my liking. And you know how Hamburg was, I was home after that tour.”

Your cheeks tinted a light red colour as you smiled sheepishly, “Oh, yeah I suppose you’re right, you did. But I meant what’s new with you, any gals you fancy?” You asked.

He shrugged, “Not really anything new, there was one a while ago but ‘m not sure she’d felt the same way about me.”

“Oh I’m sure that’s wrong! She’d be positively mad not to like you!” You said, though it almost pained you to give him dating advice.

“Don’t think so.” he paused, “So what about you? Whats been going on in the world of (Y/N)?”

You shrugged, “Nothing really, just university and a part time job at Loni’s record store.”

“No lads you fancy?” He questioned, wagging his eyebrows as he turned to look at you for a moment, surely only asking because you had asked him.

You shook your head, “Not in a while, last one was seein’ another girl the whole of our relationship so I’m swearin’ off men. At least until I’ve found one worth my time,” you answered.

He nodded in response, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You shrugged again, “‘s no big deal, wasn’t really givin’ him my full attention anyways.”

“That so? Who was gettin’ that then?” He asked, eyes on the road.

You looked at him for a bit before answering, “I put school first, as I should. ‘m close to graduatin’, y’know.”

You didn’t want him to know it was him, that he’d been the distraction. He always was. You just didn’t know why.

He hummed in response, giving your knee a small squeeze, “Good for you, love.”

You didn’t answer, the heat from his hand on your knee suddenly growing apparent.

“How’re the boys?” You asked after a few moments of silence.

“Good, driving me nutty though,” he said, as he pulled into the car park for the diner you’d be having dinner at.

You laughed, “Surely it can’t be that bad.”

He gave you a look once he’d parked the car, “You don’t know the half of it, love.”

He removed his hand from your knee with a soft pat and turned the car off, “Shall we?”

You nodded and opened your door to get out. George offered you his arm and the two of you walked into the diner you’d ate at together for as long as you could remember.

You were sat at a small booth in the corner so that no one would bother the two of you.

You’d already placed your order when you looked up to find George staring at you.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” you joked.

He smiled at you, looking at you with pure happiness, and a spark of something else, though you weren’t quite sure what.

He reached over and grabbed your hands and held them in his own, “I’ve really missed you, (Y/N),” he mumbled.

You looked him in the eyes and smiled, “I missed you too, George. But don’t think I’ve forgotten that you left me here on my own for nearly two years.”

He sighed, “I know, I just—I couldn’t get away from it, I tried to get out, more than once. I just wanted to see you, wanted to hear your voice—anything.”

You watched as the boy you’d known since childhood begin to break. His face remained calm and collected, but his eyes told an entirely different story.

“I tried, I really did, (Y/N). I tried so hard, I couldn’t—“ He stopped himself, tears beginning to show.

“Oh George—please don’t cry, love, please. You’re here now, thats what matters,” you said, pulling your conjoined hands up to press soft kisses to the back of his.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head down on the table, “I feel like I’ve failed you, I’ve been a horrible person.”

“No you haven’t, George. I knew this would be difficult when you told me Hamburg went well. I knew our friendship would be difficult when you’re so far away from me,” you said, tracing little circles on the back of his hands with your thumbs.

He pulled his hands away to run them down his face, rubbing his eyes, “I don’t want to be apart from you again,” he stated.

You nodded, “I know, George, I don’t either,” you answered honestly.

The two of you sat in silence, just enjoying each other’s company when you saw the waitress carrying two trays of food coming your way.

After she’d set the food down, the two of you began to eat.

You finished eating quickly and pulled out your wallet to pay for your meal before George put a hand over yours, “No, I asked you to dinner you’re not paying,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, “At least let me pay the tip then, Mister Quiet Beatle,” you said in a joking tone.

He chuckled at that, “Fine I suppose.”

After you’d paid, you grabbed your things and George put his arm around your waist as the two of you walked out together.

Having his hand on your side made you feel warm inside, and stirred feelings you thought you’d long forgotten.

He opened the car door for you once again, smiling brightly when you kissed his cheek in thanks.

The ride back was silent, but comfortable. George held your hand in his, something you’d always done—though it’d always sparked rumours when you were younger.

When you pulled back up to your house, he turned the car off and looked over to you, “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, you’re the one who asked me to dinner, George,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

He shook his head, “No, thank you. not for dinner, just for, well, being you.”

You blushed, “Stop making me blush, Geo, you know red isn’t my colour.”

He smiled, “Really? I think it suits you,” he leaned over to press a kiss on your cheek, lingering for just long enough.

You closed your eyes, the feelings bubbling over once again as you tried to contain them.

It was silent for a moment or two after he’d pulled away, your hands still intertwined. “Would you like to come in? We can listen to that Chuck Berry album you used to love so much,” you asked, practically begging. You didn’t want the night to end.

He smiled wide, “Well how could I ever turn that down,” he said, releasing your hand as you both got out of the car.

You walked up to the door, George following closely behind you, so close you swore you could feel the heat radiating from his close proximity.

You opened the door to find your parents in the sitting room, they smiled widely upon seeing who you’d brought home.

“Georgie!” Your mother exclaimed, jumping up from the couch to wrap him in a tight hug.

Your father waved to the group of you from the couch, never much of a talker, “‘Ello, George!” he said with a wave as he turned back to the telly.

Once your mother had released George she smiled and offered the two of you some tea, which you politely declined, “No thanks mum, I think we’ll just be upstairs,” you replied.

She nodded and smiled, “Oh alright then! If you need anything just ask!” She said in a very cheerful voice, “It’s so nice to have you back, George.” She patted his arm before rejoining your father on the couch.

George smiled and thanked your mother and waved to your father before following you up the stairs to your room.

The two of you sat entirely too close to one another on your bed, listening to Chuck Berry is on Top for what was possibly the millionth time.

This time when it ended you grabbed one of your copies of With the Beatles. “‘M not signing that for you if thats what you’re going to ask,” George interrupted as you pulled it out.

You rolled your eyes and placed the B-side down on the turntable turning over your should to see George’s reaction.

“Oh God, not this one,” he muttered, falling back onto your bed as his voice came through the speaker.

You grinned, laying beside him on the bed, your bodies far to close for friends to be, which you became increasingly aware of.

“Oh c’mon George! It’s a good track!” You encouraged, poking his sides.

He laughed loudly, “Stop that!”

You continued, tickling him until he was gasping for air, laughing so loudly that you were sure anyone in the neighborhood could hear you.

Once he’d calmed down he turned to you with a shit-eating grin.

“What?” You asked.

The smiled remained on his face as he reached out to you, rolling himself over and straddling you.

Your eyes widened, your heart beginning to race. “George—what are you doing?” You managed to choke out.

He didn’t answer and he began tickling you, you gasped loudly letting out an obnoxiously unattractive snorting laugh.

“George! Stop it!” You yelled, writhing around trying to free yourself from his grasp.

He just laughed and continued tickling your sides, not planning to stop anytime soon.

After flailing around trying to get away from George for what felt like hours, you finally wiggled your way down between his legs, falling onto the floor with laboured breaths.

He looked down at you from your bed with a sinister smile, his canines on full display.

You just glared at him, sitting up on your carpeted floor.

“You can’t be mad, you quite literally just did the same thing to me,” he said, laying on his stomach on your bed.

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever,” you muttered as you stood up and sat on the edge of the bed.

He rolled over onto his back so that he could look up at you from where he was laying.

You looked down at him, “What’s it like?”

He rose an eyebrow, “What’s what like?”

“To be famous, what’s it like?” You asked.

He shrugged, “Busy, lots of people in your business.”

You hummed in response, getting up to switch the record again, “I like the albums, George.”

He leaned his head back so that it was hanging off the side of the bed, looking at you upside down, “Y’do?”

“Of course I do, you lot are quite the performers,” you replied, pulling out your copy of Buddy Holly’s self-titled album.

“What’s your favourite track so far?” He asks, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his hands so he could watch you.

“Hm, I quite like that one you sing on the first album, what’s it called again? Would you like to know a secret?” You answered, placing the album onto the turntable.

He smiled, “‘S alright, you should hear what we’ve got going in the studio right now.”

You turned and cocked your head, “Yeah? And what’s that?” You asked, coming back over to sit beside him.

He moves so that his head is laying in your lap, “Plannin’ a movie with a soundtrack ‘n all that,” he said, closing his eyes as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“My best mate gonna be a movie star then?” You asked, smiling as you saw his mouth turn up in a smile.

“Somethin’ like that,” he murmurs.

It’s quiet for a few minutes before you speak again, “Y’know I thought you’d forgotten me, Geo,” you say quietly, your hand stilling on his forehead.

He opens his eyes when your hand stops moving, “‘Could never forget you, love,” he says, reaching up to grab your hand. “Wouldn’t dream of forgettin’ my first fan.”

You smile gently, “You aren’t allowed to leave with no contact anymore, alright?”

He nods, kissing the back of your hand, “‘Course not, you’ll have to come up and visit sometime,” he mumbles.

“I’d love that, you can show me all of London,” you said with a smile.

He smiles against your hand, “The boys would love to see you again I’m sure.”

You laugh lightly, “I’m surprised they even remember me, ‘s been so long.”

“You’re quite unforgettable, dear,” he replies, closing his eyes, completely relaxed.

You smile as you look down at him, your feelings stirring again.

You continued to run your hands through his hair as his head laid in your lap, his eyes closed and mouth slightly parted.

You stopped only once the music stopped, and George whined when you moved his head so you could swap the record again, this time opting for the B-side of Please Please Me.

The familiar chords of Love Me Do begin to play as you take your seat again, allowing George to rest his head on your lap again.

The two of you stayed like this, just enjoying the music, until your favourite song began to play.

You’ll never know how much I really love you

You’ll never know how much I really care

Your fingers tap to the beat as you close your eyes, completely taken by the song.

Listen, do you want to know a secret?

Do you promise not to tell?

Oh, closer

Little did you know that George was watching you, completely captivated by how taken you were.

Let me whisper in your ear

Say the words you long to hear

I’m in love with you

George reached up to grasp your hand, snapping you away from your trance, “You really like it that much, eh?” he asks.

You blush, realizing he’d been watching you, “Well, yeah, its a great song.” You meet his eyes, “Singer’s alright too, I guess.”

He laughs at this, “Can’t believe your favourite is one of the ones I sing.”

You roll your eyes, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He just smirks before closing his eyes and yawning, “What time is it?” He asks after he’d adequately stretched his body so half his torso was resting on your thighs.

You look at the clock on your wall and gasp, “How is it nearly two in the morning already! I have to work tomorrow morning!” You begin fussing, jumping up from your bed and grabbing stuff out of your closet to wear tomorrow.

While you do this George watches you from your bed, where he’s made himself comfortable under the blankets.

Once you’ve settled on what you’re planning to wear you turn to see George fast asleep in your bed, his soft snores melting your heart as his mouth is just barely parted.

You turn off your record player, putting your albums away before you take your dressing gown to the restroom to change and remove what little makeup you’d put on.

When you return George’s suit jacket has been thrown on the floor along with his trousers, leaving him in his white dress shirt and underwear.

You pick up his clothes from the floor and hang them up so they don’t get wrinkled, then make sure your alarm is set for tomorrow morning. once that is done you turn off your light and crawl into bed beside George, a normal occurrence many years ago.

You kiss his forehead and whisper a good night before tucking yourself under the blankets, falling asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

#george harrison #george harrison x reader #female reader #the beatles #beatles x reader #john lennon #paul mccartney #ringo starr #1964 #60s music #love

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bopinion · 3 years

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Album of the month / 2021 / 08 August

I love listening to music - gladly, all the time, everywhere. That's why I would like to share which music (or which album, after all I'm still from the vinyl generation ;-) I enjoy, accompanies me, slides up my playlists again and again...

The Beatles & George Martin

LOVE

Rock-Remix / 2006 / Parlophone, Apple, EMI (Universal Music Group)

When you hear the term "remix," it's usually a DJ putting a danceable techno beat under a pop or rock song. And often enough, this leaves the original performer or composer turning in his grave to the same frantic beat. But there are also exceptions. And one of them this time is my album of the month.

34 years ago in Québec I visited a kind of circus performance that was new to me. There were no animals, but excellent artistry. The whole thing was embedded in an almost psychedelic production of sounds and music and light effects and projections. Although individual acts, the whole was dramaturgically staged like an opera or a musical in one piece. The name of the circus was "Cirque du Soleil". A concept that in the following years and decades went from French Canada around the world and celebrated legendary successes everywhere - including artists in residence in Las Vegas. The visionary founder Guy Laliberté also became known worldwide as an impresario and, incidentally, a billionaire.

There are bands I really regret never having seen live. For example, The Queen with Freddie Mercury, although at least I met the latter once in a club in Munich - well, we were in the same room for a few hours. But there is also the opposite, for example The Beatles. As much as I appreciate these musical titans, a concert seems rather witless to me: film footage shows four musicians on stage, initially even dressed alike, operating their instruments without notable movements or show effects and trying to permanently drown out screaming young ladies. But maybe I only comfort myself with this assessment, because I was and am simply too young to be able to experience John, Paul, George and Ringo in their active time on stage. Anyway.

Guy Laliberté and George Harrison were friends. And at some point - I imagine the two of them over a cup of yogi tea after meditative yoga, one handing the other the joint "You, I have an idea..." - the idea was born to bring together the two cultural phenomena Cirque du Soleil and The Beatles. As a composition for all senses, new and timeless, ecstatic and colorful. After all, it was Harrison who was always eager to experiment. He converted to Hinduism in the 60s, gained experience with psychedelics and transcendental meditation and introduced oriental instruments, first and foremost the sitar, into Western music and is thus considered one of the most important pioneers of world music. A development that goes hand in hand with my personal taste: the longer their hair got, the more I liked their music.

It was only after Harrison's death that Laliberté was able to close the deal with the rights holders of the music (Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Yoko Ono and Olivia Harrison), which can thus probably be considered a kind of Harrison's legacy. For the show was not to simply put together a soundtrack of the old familiar hits, nor were the compositions to be reinterpreted by other musicians. No, the original multi-track recordings were to be used to create new adaptations of the original songs. And who would be better qualified for this than George Martin, who had already produced groundbreaking albums with the Beatles themselves. In the process, he advanced from mere producer to arranger and idea generator, who also revolutionized recording technology by using overdubbing, for example. It's hardly surprising that he is often referred to as the "fifth Beatle".

In general, Sir George Henry Martin, Commander of the Order of the British Empire, is a man of musical superlatives. He is recorded as the producer of 4,836 titles, but one assumes considerably more. And that includes not only The Beatles, but also a wide variety of works for Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Gerry & the Pacemakers, Manfred Mann, Little River Band, Ultravox and many more. His 30th number one hit was "Candle in the Wind" by Elton John. Martin founded the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts with McCartney, was one of a handful of producers inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and received the BRIT Award for "Best British Producer of the Past 25 Years" in 1977, among countless other honors.

So George Martin went into the studio with his son Giles Martin, who had produced INXS and Kate Bush, among others, following in his father's footsteps. And not just any studio - of course it had to be Abbey Road Studios (again). With the original recordings, the team not only created new variations of the original pieces, as they could have been created alternatively with the Beatles themselves. For example, they enriched the acoustic version of "While my Guitar gently weeps" with an orchestral accompaniment and combined the rhythm of "Tomorrow never knows" with the vocals of "Within You without You". Thus, a soundtrack project for a circus stage show ultimately became a new album by the Beatles. No wonder that Sir Paul himself described "Love" like this: "This album puts The Beatles back together again. It's kind of magical." And Ringo added "George and Giles did such a great job combining these tracks. It's really powerful for me and I even heard things I'd forgotten we'd recorded."

The documentary "All together now - A Documentary Film" by Adrian Wills (director) and Heidi Haines (screenplay), which won a Grammy in the category "Best long form Music Video", also fits the project's ambition. It tells the entire story of LOVE's creation, from the first meetings of the creative team around Martin and Laliberté to interviews with, among others, McCartney, Starr, Yoko Ono, John Lennon's widow, and Neil Aspinall, the Beatles' longtime road manager and event technician, to the first rehearsals of the stage show in Montréal.

LOVE is more than a medley of hits by the mushroom heads, but rather a kind of rock opera that is a first-class listening experience even without the accompanying show. Says George Martin: "The Beatles always looked for other ways of expressing themselves and this is another step forward for them." And father and son succeeded with remarkable creativity. The new version of "Because" is still directly harmless, since it uses the birdsong of "Across the Universe" as well as the final chord of "A Day in the Life" played backwards. "Glass Onion," on the other hand, became a grandiose collage with elements of the songs "Things We Said Today," "Hello, Goodbye" (background vocals), "I Am the Walrus" (background vocals), "Penny Lane" (flute), "A Day in the Life" (orchestra), "Magical Mystery Tour" (effects) and "Only a Northern Song" (effects). State-of-the-art technology in digitization, mixing and mastering also ensure the finest sound quality.

Speaking of sound quality: a show that relies so heavily on music must of course also rely on a perfect acoustic performance. Created by French designer Jean Rabasse, the LOVE theater at The Mirage / Las Vegas houses 2,013 seats set around a central stage. Each seat is fitted with three speakers, which sums up to a spectacular sound system with 6,351 speakers designed by Jonathan Deans. The stage includes 11 lifts, 4 traps, and 13 automated tracks and trolleys. The theater features 32 digital projectors creating very large high definition digital 100' wide panoramic images, even on four translucent screens that can be unfurled to divide the auditorium. That's what I call "being in the middle of the action".

Reportedly, the theater cost more than $100 million - which doesn't even include the development of the show. And unfortunately, it also means LOVE can never go on tour. So I won't be able to avoid traveling to Las Vegas one day for that reason alone. Which I trust will be on the event calendar for a few more years to recoup its costs. And so the circle closes: Decades later, I would once again enjoy Cirque du Soleil in North America - and thus also experience The Beatles live in a somewhat different way.

Here's a trailer for the Las Vegas Show LOVE from the Cirque du Soleil:

https://youtu.be/hIJZAfyRlD4

youtube

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thebeatles-world · 1 year

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Eternal Flame: Part 2

Eternal Flame: Part 1

Summary:

*This is a series *

*mentions of verbal abuse*

The year is 1964. Reader is unhappy with her fiancé who makes her move with him to England to get away from her family & his home life in the United States of America. Her fiancé is controlling, has bad anger issues, blames her for his own issues, doesn’t defend her when his friends pick on her, shames her & yells at her.

Until one day she meets one of the band members from The Beatles who happens to be George Harrison in a coffee shop in the early morning. They both have a friendly conversation & they get to know each other as the days go by. But they noticed that they have feelings for each other. Reader believes that George was sent to her by an angel to save her from the toxic and manipulative relationship that she is currently going through. But what happens when Reader’s crazy fiancé discovers that George and Reader have strong feelings for each other? Will he destroy their love and their life?…

You went home with a smile on your face. You couldn't believe that you got George Harrison's phone number. The actual George Harrison from The Beatles.

You got home and you took your shoes off. With excitement, you started to phone your best friend from the U.S.

It was different time zones with the U.K. and the U.S. but you and your best friend found a way to call each other.

''Yes?'' Your best friend picked up on the other line.

''Hey, it's me Y/N.'' You told her. Before she could say anything, you blurted out - '' I got some news to tell you and you won't ever believe it.''

''What? What is it?'' Your best friend said, wondering why you sounded so excited over the phone.

''Okay hear me out. I was out getting some coffee and I bumped into a guy and it was actually George Harrison from The Beatles! I am not making this up, I am telling you the truth! Me and him sat down at a table and we had the longest chat ever! He was telling me a lot about him being in The Beatles, his life and a lot of stuff. We had a great time together and I felt like I could be with myself around him. He was so sweet. I couldn't tell you how happy I was back at the coffee shop. I have never ever felt like this in my life. Nobody has ever made me feel like this before.'' You chatted away with your best friend.

''Are you sure it's not a different guy? Are you sure it's actually George from The Beatles?'' Your best friend said with curiosity.

''Yes it really is him! He gave me his phone number after we chatted for so long. I couldn't stop smiling on the way home.'' You said with a soft sigh as you thought about you and George chatting away back in the coffee shop.

''Then what are you waiting for? Go call him!'' Your best friend said with excitement.

You sigh deeply into the phone as you thought about your fiance Allen. You knew he would go crazy and rip the whole flat apart if he found out that you had George's phone number. He wouldn't even care if he was a Beatle.

''What? What's wrong?'' Your best friend asked you when she heard you sigh on the phone.

''Allen. He would lose it if I had George's phone number.'' You told her with a sad expression.

''Oh him.'' Your best friend was quiet for a second over the phone.

She knew how Allen was and gave you so much advice to leave him. But you couldn't leave him. You felt like it was too late. You two were already here in England and you didn't really have a way to come back home to the U.S.

''Well, you could always call George when Allen isn't around? Just be careful and try not to get caught?'' Your best friend suggested.

''I mean yeah.. that does sound like a good idea. Why didn't I think of that?' You rubbed your temple.

''Anyways I can't believe you met George from The Beatles! I am so jealous right now! I would have loved to meet him in person as well. Especially Paul.'' Your best friend said excitedly.

You knew that your best friend's favorite Beatle was Paul.

''I know, I should honestly listen more to their music.'' You told her.

''I can't believe you haven't listened to more of their music, it's really good! Honestly!'' Your best friend told you.

“I’m honestly regretting the fact that I haven’t listened to more of their music yet. Oh, I know George sounds amazing when he sings.” You smiled at the thought of hearing George singing.

“Silly Goose. Slow down. You just met the guy. I know he’s a Beatle and he’s so cute but still. Slow down.” Your best friend giggled.

“I-I’m not falling for him.” You told her, feeling your cheeks turn bright red. You bit your lip.

“It’s just… me and him just connected in a way that I can’t explain and he made me feel a special way that Allen has never made me feel before. Or any guy that I dated in the past.” You added.

“I know but take my advice. Slow down. Don’t fall for him just yet. But if it ever gets to the point where you are falling madly in love with him. I hope that Allen doesn’t find out. I just worry about you and your safely. You know I don’t trust Allen and I don’t like him either.” Your best friend said in a serious tone.

“Yes.” You told her. “I’ll be careful.”

You knew it was life or death if Allen ever did found out about you having George’s phone number or if he ever found out that you and George were chatting at the coffee shop. Allen didn’t like any guys talking to you and he wanted every guy out there to stay away from you. That’s how controlling he was.

Very controlling…

To the point where you wanted to escape from the relationship. But you had no choice. You were forced to stay with him. It was hard to leave someone as toxic, emotional abusive, manipulative, crazy, and controlling guy like Allen.

It was scary and you were scared for yourself.

You wish you could tell George about Allen. But you didn’t know what to say or how to word it.

If only if it was easy.

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monkberries · 4 years

Note

They dealt with all of the above. Ringo was treated as a joke for pretty much everything, especially since this was the era of prog rock. His personal life was also tabloid fodder. George was derided as being a dour spiritual nut who was out of touch. He along w/ Ringo didn't get the respect he deserved as a guitarist bc his style wasn't in at the time & people knew little about his role in The Beatles. All credit went to Lennon/McCartney. 1/2

John had the benefit of having the rebel genius image, but even he became a source of ridicule with all the stunts he pulled with Yoko and the way his career declined after Imagine. He wasn't deified to the degree he was in the 80s. I'm not trying to say Paul never had a hard time, but the way this fandom talks as if he is the only one who faced extreme criticism or disrespect just tells me they haven't looked much into the other Beatles' lives. The man is more admired than most musicians. 2/2

(IDK if this screenshotted anons were from the same person or not, but I’ll just answer them in this one since it’s all the same subject.)

Here’s what I think is valid, as I see it: Paul fans are upset by the way his music was treated by the music press, especially in the first few years of the 70s, while the music of the other three were generally given at least the benefit of the doubt. They’re not upset about the tabloid gossip, the purely personal stuff – they are upset, specifically and with good reason, at the way Paul’s music was treated and the way the music world’s personal dislike of him seeped into their music reviews. I’m gonna focus in on 1970 through the end of 1974, since this is where a lot of the complaints spawn from, and things start to shift in a big way in 74. You didn’t ask but contemporary writings about their early solo music is something I’m fascinated by anyway and you turned the wind-up toy key in my back, so. Off I go. This is gonna be so, so long.

At different points in the decade, all of them were subject to a sullying of their personal reputations. That is where I do agree with you: all of them were subjected to that by the press, to varying degrees, at varying times, and for various reasons for each of them. That is just what happens to public figures the longer they are public figures. Tabloids mess with everyone no matter how beloved they are.

However, that’s not what I generally see Paul fans getting upset about. What I see is that they’re upset at the way the much more legitimate and widely respected music press approached Paul’s music and talent in general. It is widely received knowledge now that the critics treated Paul’s music differently than they did John’s and George’s and even Ringo’s; the trashing was not “equal.” They came at John and George with the assumption that their talent was real and ongoing outside of the Beatles, their genius unquestionable, their motives pure and well-intentioned and honest. Paul was not afforded these assumptions. Some examples to show what I mean, most of them found through wikipedia, rocksbackpages, or rollingstone.com.

John

Plastic Ono Band was Robert Christgau’s number one album of 1970 in The Village Voice. from Creem’s review: “John's record, of course, has been righteously raved over ever since its release, justifiably. It's interesting and even enlightening to see a man working out his trauma on black plastic but more than that, it's totally enthralling to see that Lennon has once again unified, to some degree, his life and his music into a truly whole statement.” From High Fidelity’s review: "a tremendously exciting listening experience, perhaps the best any Beatle has ever offered." In their Imagine review, Rolling Stone called POB “perfect.” A couple reviews in the mainstream were more mixed, put off a little by the rawness of it, but overall the rock world quickly grew to see this album as a work of genius.

Imagine was even more widely well-reviewed, despite a mixed review from Rolling Stone (John fell out with Jann Wenner around this time, curiously). Here’s a passage from rateyourmusic.com: “Imagine was actually one of the most critically acclaimed albums of the year, aside from this tepid review in Rolling Stone. Indeed, much of the rock press seemed palpably relieved that the former Beatle hadn't gone completely off the deep end. ‘It's the best album of the year, and for me it's the best album he's done, with anything, or with anyone, at any time,’ Roy Hollingworth wrote in the 10/9/71 issue of Melody Maker. ‘The album is superb,’ Alan Smith agreed in the 9/11/71 issue of NME. ‘Beautiful. One step away from the chill of his recent total self-revelation, and yet a giant leap towards commerciality without compromise...I have no criticism at all.’”

Some Time in New York City was admittedly John’s nadir, and the press was vicious about it, both personally and musically, deeming the album egotistical, lacking in energy, and devoid of sincerity. However, many maintained a reverence for the genius that came before it and hopeful encouragement for the future. Rolling Stone said that “The Lennons should be commended for their daring;” Creem said it wasn’t half bad; and even though NME’s article was scathing, it ended with a plea for John to return to form, saying, “Don't rely on cant and rigidity. Don't alienate. Stimulate. You know, like you used to.”

Mind Games, though reviews were mixed, fared far better in comparison. Again, there is a hopeful tone to the reviews, a sureness that John can do better. From Rolling Stone talks about the music being a return to POB form, but the writing is his worst yet; however, Landau qualifies this by saying the lyrics aren’t “offensive, per se, just misguided... [John Lennon’s admirers] might even be able to withstand something more challenging” and then praises John’s voice, his production, and a few individual songs. In Melody Maker, Ray Coleman says, “if you warm to the rasping voice of Lennon and, like me, regard him as the true fulcrum of much of what came from his old group, then like any new Lennon album, it will be enjoyable and even important.” Christgau is more middling but also says, “Still, the single works, and let's hope he keeps right on stepping.”

Walls and Bridges seems confusing to reviewers in retrospect. They couldn’t seem to come to a consensus on it. The musicianship was widely praised, for the most part, though Rolling Stone criticized the first side on this front; reviewers alternately said it was “the latest chapter in John Lennon’s Identity Crisis” (Creem) and “truly a superb album by any standards” (Melody Maker). Throughout the Rolling Stone review, the author is able to thoroughly critique the songs, for better or worse, with a neutral affect and without resorting to insulting John personally. He ends the review on a positive note: “When one accepts one’s childhood, one’s parenthood and the impermanence which lies between, one can begin to slog along. When John slogs, he makes progress.” Again, even though the reviews aren’t all positive, we can see, especially and most importantly in the most influential rock magazine of the time, the acknowledgment of his talent, a sense of excitement for what John will do next, and a belief that his work is authentic and honest.

George

All Things Must Pass, I mean. Apart from a couple of outliers like Christgau in The Village Voice (he called it “overblown fatuity”), it was incredibly, almost universally beloved by the music press when it came out. There was quite a bit of surprise that such a talent had been under everyone’s noses all this time, but I don’t think anon is quite correct that all the credit for the Beatles went to Lennon/McCartney. For example, Ben Gerson in Rolling Stone recognized George’s talent within the Beatles like this: “Up until now, George has been perhaps the premier studio musician among rock band guitarists. From the electronic whine which began “I Feel Fine” to the break in “Hard Day’s Night” to the crazed, sitar-influenced burst on “Taxman,” George exhibited an avant-garde imagination and a technical flawlessness, as well as the ability to stay within the bounds of a song, which has remained unparalleled.” In Melody Maker, the feeling of journalists was summed up thusly: hearing the album was “the rock equivalent of the shock felt by pre-war moviegoers when Garbo first opened her mouth in a talkie: Garbo talks! – Harrison is free!" The personal nature and honesty of the lyrics were praised as well; Time described it as an “expressive, classically executed personal statement.” Ben Gerson did call his proselytizing offensive, but in the next sentence says that George redeems himself from that with the personal plea in Hear Me Lord.

Concert for Bangla Desh - again, some cynicism from Christgau in The Village Voice (must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed that day) and of course tax issues dogged it later, but overall, for the rock press at the time, this was a crowning achievement that George pulled off. He was praised all over the press, countercultural and mainstream, for his live musical talent, the group of musicians that joined him, the lack of political motivation, the sincerity and goodwill, and George’s ability to bring back "a brief incandescent revival of all that was best about the Sixties" (Rolling Stone). To this day he is credited with creating the model for future charity concerts.

Living in the Material World - Nothing could have topped the one-two punch of ATMP and the Concert for Bangla Desh, but honestly, LITMW came pretty close for some journalists. Rolling Stone again praised George’s honesty and authenticity: “ Despite the occasional use of “psychedelic puns,” Harrison’s lyrics are so guileless they convey an extraordinary sincerity that transcends questions of craftsmanship. Similarly, the devotions we are called upon to share with Harrison, though they communicate no specific, private torment, do have the authenticity of overheard prayers and are therefore sacred.” Melody Maker said, "Harrison has always struck me before as simply a writer of very classy pop songs; now he stands as something more than an entertainer. Now he's being honest." The pushback against his pious attitude and lyrics picked up some steam with this album, particularly with Christgau (again) and Tony Tyler of NME, who called it “so damn holy I could scream.” However, it was far from the consensus opinion at the time, and with the biggest rock magazine in the world at your back, you can withstand quite a bit.

Dark Horse, oof. That poor man. It did get some positivity in Billboard and Melody Maker, but my god, the reviews for this album and its subsequent tour were so cruel. I suspect when these anon(s) talk about the others being treated terribly by the press as well, this, along with John’s STINYC, is one of the examples they would give, and they’re not wrong about that. This was the point where George’s piety and what they perceived as a sanctimonious attitude finally started really getting to everyone, and the album plus the tour was the perfect opportunity to dogpile on him. I guess it was to be expected; no one can ride that high forever, and the press loves to knock people over and kick them while they’re down. Rolling Stone called it “disastrous,” “shoddy,” and called his guitar work “rudimentary,” eventually declaring that George had “never been a great artist.” This from the same magazine that was practically worshipping at his feet the year before. Yowch.

Ringo

Sentimental Journey - The less that’s said about this album, the better.

Beaucoups of Blues was actually quite well-received. No one called him a genius for it, and it wasn’t a serious personal record and therefore wasn’t treated that way, but journalists seemed uniquely able to let themselves enjoy this record despite the serious/political/personal tone of most musicians at the time. Melody Maker believed Ringo had "conviction and charm" and that because of that, the album stripped away the serious “hip posturing” and let you just enjoy the music on its own terms. The Village Voice said that Ringo was “good at making himself felt.” Although Rolling Stone’s tone was a bit more cruel than other magazines (there was a crack somewhere in there that Ringo wasn’t as smart as John), it also called him lovable and the record “a real winner” where the songs “sound terrific.”

Ringo was a total smash and I think people forget this. It’s remembered only because it’s an album that was worked on by all four Beatles, but actually, the critics fuckin loved it. Ringo was praised in Rolling Stone for his unpretentiousness, sensibility, and essentially collaborative nature: “Ringo was always the figure of conciliation within the Beatles, undoubtedly the most genial, conceivably the most sensible, and the one with the smallest musical axe to grind. His very lapses bespoke the esteem in which the others held him; had they not liked him so much, those perfectionists would never have allowed him to sing. Perhaps because as the drummer he stood outside the process of creation, he had the best perspective from which to see the Beatles as a unity. Ringo has never had any pretense of self-sufficiency. Once he had gotten his special projects out of the way (projects for which John, Paul and George's talents would have been unsuited anyway) Ringo was ready to call upon the three most obvious people to assist him with writing, singing and playing. As Starr's first "pop album," Ringo signifies a homecoming, not just of family, but in musical style as well.”

Goodnight Vienna was kind of a minor album for Ringo, but still, reviews were pretty good. Rolling Stone praised his “unalloyed sincerity which is his trademark and trump card.” Yet again, we see the theme of authenticity popping up in these reviews - if you are perceived as authentic, honest, and sincere, that takes you a long way with music reviewers in this time period, and Ringo was nothing if not wholly, completely himself.

Paul

McCartney - One of the main complaints of Paul fans is that Jann Wenner forced Langdon Winner, the author of the review for this album in Rolling Stone, to rewrite his article and put a more negative spin on it. The result is that Winner praised most of the music but totally undermined his own praise by questioning the authenticity of the tone and deriding the press release that came with the album as much as he praised the music. He ends the article like this: “I like McCartney very much. But I remember that the people of Troy also liked that wooden horse they wheeled through their gates until they discovered that it was hollow inside and full of hostile warriors.” This was a huge blow at a time when personal authenticity and substance were considered paramount. Melody Maker also questioned the legitimacy of his genius, saying “With this record, [McCartney's] debt to George Martin becomes increasingly clear.” Most other reviews weren’t any better.

Ram, I mean, Jesus Christ the reviews for this. It’s a widely respected album now, even made the RS top 500 albums of all time list last year, but at the time people were still so angry with Paul for supposedly breaking up the Beatles that they were still taking it out on his music a year later (imo). Landau in Rolling Stone called it “emotionally vacuous” and said it lacked conviction, saying also that it was “so incredibly inconsequential and so monumentally irrelevant you can’t even [hate it]; it is difficult to concentrate on, let alone dislike or even hate.” NME called it “the worst thing Paul McCartney has ever done.” Threaded through these reviews is a belief that the songs are devoid of meaning and that Paul’s happy domestic front is just a frustrating lie; Christgau in The Village Voice said he was “infuriated by the McCartneys' modern young-marrieds image” - infuriated because he clearly doesn’t believe it, rendering Paul dishonest and his music inauthentic. Once again journalists are unable to review Paul’s music without sniping about him as a person.

Wild Life - Though the situation remains largely the same - reviewers refuse to take him seriously, believe anything he says, or treat his musical talent as anything but vacuous fluff - the reviews aren’t quite as bad as they were for Ram and a bit of positivity begins to stir. It’s evident especially in the Rolling Stone review, where Mendelsohn wonders if Paul is making crappy fluff on purpose to piss John off because it will sell just as well anyway. It’s not much, and on top of the fairly strong criticism there is almost no hope for future Paul releases: “My own conviction is that we'd be foolish to expect anything much more earth-shaking than Wild Life out of McCartney for a good long while... In the meantime the reader is advised to either develop a fondness for vacuous but unpretentious pop music or look elsewhere for musical pleasure.” But it’s something.

Red Rose Speedway Paul continues to be lambasted by a lot of the press on this album for being lightweight and having no meaning behind his songs (at this point it’s just repetitive to quote the articles, just trust me that they say basically the same thing they were saying for the past three albums too), BUT I think a nuance that gets forgotten in all of this is that Rolling Stone gave it kind of a decent review. It seems like they finally quit gatekeeping and realized that songs don’t need to have some deep personal meaning to be good. Kaye is still not very nice about Paul’s lyrics but he recognizes that he doesn’t have to take Paul’s music on the same terms as he takes John and George. Paul’s music is less personal, but that doesn’t make it unworthy. He calls it “pleasant, accessible without concentration” and praises Paul’s voice and arranging skills. It feels like for this album, Rolling Stone took the stick out of its own ass when it came to Paul and finally relaxed enough to receive Paul’s music on his terms rather than theirs. Which, imo, primed the rock world for...

Band on the Run, Paul’s comeback. Even though Christgau in The Village Voice remained unconvinced (he called it “a pleasant piece of hackwork”), almost everyone else adored it. It seems weird to us now, but the general sentiment seemed to be that people were surprised by how good this album was. NME said, “The ex-Beatle least likely to re-establish his credibility and lead the field has pulled it off with a positive master-stroke”; and although Landau’s review in Rolling Stone overflowed with praise, he also said, “I'm surprised I like Band on the Run so much more than McCartney's other solo albums because, superficially, it doesn't seem so different from them.”

I hope I’ve been able to demonstrate a general trajectory with the musical reputation of each Beatle here. John starts off on two incredible high points, crashes and burns, and then works his way back up. He DEFINITELY missed with STINYC, but even when he followed it up with Mind Games, there was still a hopeful tone to the reviews, sort of like, “Ah, well, the last two weren’t great but we’re still looking forward to what John will give us next.” Until the Dark Horse tour/album, which did sour the press on poor George, the music press adored him. It was hit after hit with him. He could not miss. Three high points, one after the other, then a monumental crash. Ringo seems to stay fairly high, even if the records aren’t serious records. All three of them start out incredibly well, and the music press was able and willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Paul was given none of that. Perhaps because he was out of step with the attitudes about music at the time, perhaps because journalists hated him for breaking up the Beatles, perhaps because they believed John when he painted Paul as “establishment,” perhaps a combination - whatever their issue was, Paul was given no benefit of the doubt to start with, no faith in his genius, and no belief in his authenticity. He was just a hack to the music press for the first few years of the 70s; he started at the bottom and was forced to work his way up, unlike the other three. It started, imo, when Wenner forced the journalist who wrote the McCartney review in RS to rewrite the article, and it spiraled from there. He was seen as hollow and uncool, as one of the anons said, “straight” in the parlance of the time - straight meaning “establishment.” This is kind of where I do start to roll my eyes a little bit at stans, when they get upset at people calling him “establishment” and trying to prove that actually he was so anti-establishment that people couldn’t handle it or whatever, without trying to understand what the word “anti-establishment” meant at the time. But there are also really substantive arguments you can make that say Paul’s music was not taken seriously because of a personal grudge against him.

I’m not saying that all of them didn’t have run-ins with the music press. I’m saying there is nuance here that I don’t think these anons are allowing for in the first few years of that decade. They came at George and John and Ringo with a positive, or at least neutral, slant most of the time. They came at Paul with a negative one. Case in point are the reviews of Band on the Run that were surprised at how good it was. That stuff gets people’s hackles up. The others didn’t have positive reviews rewritten to be more negative. The others didn’t have albums savaged that are now on the Rolling Stone top 500 albums of all time list. I do agree that John, at least, and George post Dark Horse, had a harder time with the music press than people generally remember or care to think about – deification is retroactive, I guess, and as Paul fans we should definitely recognize that Paul wasn’t the only one who went through a rough time with the press. But I do think Paul’s situation was made uniquely and unjustifiably difficult for those first few years.

I mean, at the same time, I cannot stress enough how much this did not affect his bottom line. Despite the horrible reviews, Ram still made a ton of money, McCartney made a ton of money, Band on the Run and Wild Life and Red Rose Speedway all made a ton of money. He had a fanbase, a huge one, that followed him loyally and faithfully through the early 70s as he was getting savaged by the press, and through the middle and late 70s when he was touring. At some point, you have to step back and go, wait. Why does any of this matter? This was 50 years ago. He was a multi-millionaire then and is a billionaire now. And you are right; whenever people over-generalize and try to make the case that Paul was always badly reviewed and the others were press darlings, I tend to get annoyed because they’re totally missing the actually interesting nuances of the situation (that can be easily found online! I found most of the music reviews through snippets on Wikipedia!) In conclusion, I guess my point is that both “Paul was vilified while everyone else wasn’t” and “everyone was equally vilified” paint the events of the early 70s with brushes that are too broad and miss the nuance that was evident in the way the press interacted with their music.

#Anonymous #macca #johnny #geo #ritchie #fab four #sorry this isn't so much a response to anon's points as it is me going off on research tangents and accidentally writing a masters thesis #reading old rolling stone album reviews is such an unexpected pleasure i recommend it

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tocrackerboxpalace · 3 years

Text

Le Rêve - Part 4

Summary: George reflection chapter. What more is there to say?

Warning: R-rated

“Ringo, have you seen me favorite pair of socks? The black ones?”

George tore through his suitcase in agitation, carelessly tossing the clothing into a second-carpet on the hotel floor. He groaned in frustration when an uninterested “uh-uh” came from the other side of the room, where Ringo was changing into his pajamas.

“I can’t bloody find them anywhere.” George let out a defeated huff and sat back on his heels with a pout.

“Where’d you leave ‘em last?”

“If I knew that,” George tried, ever-so-patiently, “I wouldn’t be tearin’ the room apart, now, would I?”

“Did you leave ‘em in John and Paul’s this morning?” Ringo asked in a tone of voice that implied George absolutely did leave them in John and Paul’s that morning.

“I don’t know why you never get things for me when you find them,” George muttered, though the words were less pointed now. He threw his suitcase closed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Harrison. You’re a big lad now, you’ve got to be responsible for your own things.” Ringo shot him a grin. “Think of me as your personal… guide. I’ll give you hints and whatnot along the way, but I won’t do it for you.”

“Charming.” George rolled his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to gather up all of the other strewn-about items of clothing. “Well, I’m off to go get them. I can’t get sleep without them.”

Ringo cocked an amused eyebrow as he began to hang his suit. “You’re an odd fella, you know that, George?”

“Bah.” George swatted away the comment and pulled the door open. “Be back in a minute.”

John and Paul’s room was down the hall from theirs, though it was really only a few steps. The hotel was small, the rooms far from luxurious. The hall was a dull mess of gray and beige, the carpet a crisscross pattern and the wallpaper about a thousand years old. He scoffed in distaste of the place. They were the fucking Beatles now, for God’s sakes. You’d think they could afford some better living. George kicked at a spider on the water-stained trim as he approached his mates’ room.

He had just raised his arm to knock when a strange sound caused him to pause his movements. Intrigued, George inched forward and pressed an ear close to the frame. What was the harm in getting a little listen?

There was… moaning. And cursing. George nearly rolled his eyes. It sounded like Paul—richer than John’s voice, and clearer, too. He also ran with the hardly faint memory that Paul was quite vocal in bed. He should almost know the lad’s sounds by now. Part of him wondered where John had gotten side-tracked off to, because he could have sworn the three of them went up in the elevator together.

He half-laughed to himself. This guy was too good. George hadn’t even the slightest clue where Paul could’ve picked a bird up on his way from the lobby to the room. Gonna be sick, my arse, he thought to himself.

As George waited outside of the door, he pondered his options. He could wait until Paul’s little rendezvous was over (which, judging by the sounds, was not far off). He could knock and give them a second to dress or hide the bird. And finally: eh, what the hell. He’d seen worse before. If the door was unlocked, he could just slip in.

Besides, George really wanted those socks.

Ultimately, he decided that sneaking in was his best bet. He’d slip past the door and slither unnoticed to the bathroom, and go—yes! He remembered now!—behind the toilet. Pick up the socks and leave as quickly as he came. In and out in a jiffy.

George reached for the doorknob and gave it a slight twist when an expression from inside stopped him cold.

“Fucking hell, Paul.”

Paul was in there; he knew good and well. The question was what was… the other voice doing there? The boys’ closeness had never warranted anything more than an “Oh, shit, sorry,” when walking in on one another and leaving as swiftly as possible. Was the other voice… watching? Just hanging around in there?

George’s pulse quickened, his grip beginning to slip from the door as he desperately fought the pounding confusion in his head. He had to have misheard. It couldn’t have been that voice. He was delusional, imagining things, that’s all.

The voice called out again, breathless, grainy: “Christ.”

It was unmistakably John.

George remained frozen in front of the door, unable to tear himself away. Faintly, he registered Paul moaning John’s name. John was in there. And so was Paul. He had heard them call out to each other… for each other…

“John, I can’t—” Another pause, and bedsprings creaked incriminatingly. “John, stop, I-I’m gonna come—”

Before a second thought could cross his mind, George threw the door open and stood gaping at the scene in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was the sheer look of terror on Paul’s face. This was almost comical, considering the obvious next thing to notice was that Paul was stark naked, a furious burn in his cheeks as he scrambled to cover his intimacies. Intimacies that John was—was all over.

John had been touching him like a bird should. George’s eyes raked over John’s form. The man didn’t look nearly as terrified as Paul. In fact, he looked almost… smug. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes bright and teetering on wild. He laid propped up on one elbow, making the hard-on in his trousers conspicuously evident. Despite throwing himself off of his mate as fast as possible, he looked completely at ease, glaring at George almost daringly as a shadow of a smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

George took this opportunity to switch stares back to Paul, sickened by whatever fucking game John thought he was playing. The ends of Paul’s hair were curled with the sweat that beaded on his neck and forehead. His hands trembled where they tugged at the bedsheet, which could have done more to hide him. There was something pleading in his eyes, something desperate. If only George knew what it was for.

There was nothing he could think of to say. Rather than waste time standing and waiting for someone to speak up, George turned on his heel and swiftly shut the door behind him.

—

George leaned with palms pressed against the door, chest heaving from exertion and overwhelming bewilderment. The scene had played over and over in his mind since the fervent escape. It was his fault, he knew—that was the worst part.

He had only been going to look for a pair of socks. And they were rather nice socks. His favorite, even. That’s all he had wanted. Socks.

George had heard about these kinds of people before. Seen some of them, even, in Hamburg. He was fairly certain that Brian was one. The ones in Germany always tried to make a move on him and the others, but he never saw why; he didn’t fancy any of them were that attractive, anyroad. George suddenly recalled a conversation, not so long ago, when John had gone on a slight rant about The Homosexuals in Hamburg, and Paul had nodded along disapprovingly. It was Ringo, eventually, who edged them out of the discussion: “Eh, come on lads. It’s none of our business what they do, anyway.”

What the hell just happened?

“Whasamatter, Georgie?” Ringo stepped out of the bathroom, words coming out garbled as a toothbrush dangled from his lips. He tossed it in the trash and turned to spit in the sink. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“J-John and Paul,” George stuttered, his mind working frantically to piece together what had just happened. It seemed to be the only coherent sentence he could form. “I saw—it was John… and Paul. With Paul.”

“No kidding,” Ringo gave him an understanding nod and a slight chuckle. “Intense fellas, they are. They give me a downright scare sometimes, too. Writing a song, then?”

“Ringo, you’re not hearing me,” George tried, his voice unsteady. “I saw them. Doing—together. It was both of them, with each other.”

Ringo’s brow knitted in confusion. George’s ramblings only seemed to perplex him more, draw him farther away from the conclusion. “I… Congratulations?”

George rubbed his forehead shakily. He wasn’t so much frustrated as just helplessly exasperated. There were no connections in his mind that made the situation make sense. He stifled a groan.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, mate.”

“They were shagging,” George blurted. On instinct, a hand flew to cover his mouth as soon as the words left his lips. The phrase sounded so bizarre, so wrong, and was yet the only thing he felt accurately characterized what he just saw. “Almost.”

Ringo blinked. “Shagging who?”

George began to pace back and forth across the small room. “John. Or-or Paul. Each other. They were almost-shagging one another.”

Ringo stared, looking just as baffled as George felt. “What do you mean?”

George continued slowly. “I went to go get my socks. I was gonna knock, but I heard something, and I didn’t know what it was. So I listened for a moment, and I just thought that Paul was in there with a bird. Y’know.”

Ringo nodded, no more convinced.

“But I heard another voice, and they were saying Paul’s name, and then Paul said it back, and it was John. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You went in?” Ringo didn’t sound surprised, just curious.

“I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t believe it. I s’pose I thought I had to see for myself. And-and then I did.” His voice broke a bit. “I don’t know what to do, Ringo. What the fuck?”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. I just left.”

Ringo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“We can’t.”

“We have to talk to them.”

“About what? D’you want me to go in there again and say, ‘John, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, what were ya doing in there, jerking Paul off? And Paul, ya bloody bastard, what were you doing enjoyin’ it?” George ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck. How are we supposed to talk about this? What about the band?”

“Hey.” Ringo’s voice was gentle as he took a step closer. “One thing at a time, mate. We’ll worry about the band when the band gives us something to worry about. Right now, we need to go promise them that we won’t tell a soul, and that we’re not judging them really, but that they need to be more careful, and—”

“Be more careful?” George was bewildered. “Ringo, they were in the privacy of their own room. How much more careful can you get?”

“Do you want to be the one to tell them to stop?” Ringo raised an eyebrow. “Because one, I don’t think we have the authority to do that. And two, if I know anything about John and Paul, it will only make them want to do it more.”

George pondered this for a second. “They’re going to kill me.”

“No, George, come on—”

“They are.” George began to panic. “I walked in on them. I never should have done it. I should have just left in the first place. I should’ve knocked before anything. Oh, Christ, Ringo. They’re gonna kill me!”

Ringo’s gaze was soft and sympathetic, but George could pick up on a hint of worry in the lines of his face. Not that he would blame him for it. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul and the fantasy bird George had originally thought. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, and it was decriminalized. It’d even be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, period.

But none of that was the case.

“Look,” Ringo started, laying a hand on George’s shoulder to temporarily halt his pacing. “Let’s go back to the room. We’ll talk to them. I don’t know about what, yet, but they need to know that I know."

“Okay.” George sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

—

Paul was sitting up, staring off into the distance and frantically nibbling at his thumbnail. His expression was hard, the other hand drumming nervously on the bed beside him. He was almost dressed, but everything carried an air of distractedness: his fly was down, his shirt haphazardly buttoned, his tie draped across his shoulders. He barely acknowledged when George and Ringo entered, lazily casting his gaze in their direction.

“Paul,” George tried, attempting to take hold of the conversation early. Maybe, at least, if he was in control, it would be easier for both of them. No more surprises.

Paul blinked up at him, looking dazed. He didn’t speak.

“I’m not mad.” George spoke quickly: reparations for earlier. “I-I was just shocked. ‘M not angry at all. I didn’t know how to…” He cleared his throat. “Not make it… worse?”

“Hm,” Paul affirmed.

“Where’s John?” Ringo asked suddenly, tentatively, as if he were afraid to stir Paul.

“Fuck if I know,” Paul shot in response.

George and Ringo exchanged a look. This was certainly not the picture George had left only minutes earlier. The air itself was hostile, heaving with McCartney’s own breaths until the others swayed uneasily on their feet.

“We can talk about it,” George offered, despite every nerve screaming at him not to do so. It was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, but he couldn’t conjure up any other consolation.

“What is there to talk about?” Paul’s voice was cold. He was refusing eye contact.

“Paul,” Ringo tried again, taking a step closer. “It’s all right. George and I, we don’t care if you guys…” He trailed off, looking at George pleadingly.

George filled in. “…Want to be together.” The end of his sentence unintentionally lilted up, posed as a question.

Paul had the audacity to look at them now as if they were mad. “What?”

George watched confusion wash over Ringo’s features, mirroring the perplexity he felt on his own face. He tore his gaze away and focused on Paul, who looked nothing short of furious. The two men stood awkwardly, neither making a move to speak, which George figured was a smart decision. Let McCartney talk his way out of this.

“What?” He said again. George shook his head.

Paul pushed himself to his feet, his eyes sparkling maliciously. “No, George, tell me. Just what do you think you’re implying?”

He began advancing towards them. Though part of him knew, deep down, that Paul would never actually get physical with him, George flinched back noticeably into Ringo, making the older lad stumble as well.

Something changed in Paul’s expression at the interaction. The fury melted into fear, and then, almost… despair. He reached out for George’s arm, then seemed to think better of the choice and pull his searching hand back.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he retreated. “I’m sorry.”

“Come now, Paul, it’s all right.” Ringo’s voice was unsteady, but his words were comforting and secure. He took a tentative step and placed his hand on their friend’s shoulder. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, Ritchie,” He near-wailed. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what that was. What happened.” Paul raked a hand through his fringe. “I can’t tell you. And now John’s fucked off to God-knows-where, and he was already in a bad state. Oh, shit. This is bad.”

Again, George and Ringo exchanged a nervous glance. Paul could be moody, manic, bizarre. The lad could go seemingly weeks without expressing a single intimate thought or feeling. He could also have outbursts, usually at John, about the smallest of things. George had always believed it to be pent-up frustration and emotional suppression, but this? This was no typical McCartney venom. This seemed like something entirely different.

“I’m not queer,” Paul suddenly asserted, mostly to himself.

“I believe you,” Ringo lied through his teeth. When Paul’s gaze was cast downward again, Ringo gave George a helpless shrug. “But we can’t just sweep this under the rug if you want to move forward. We have to find John, too, and talk about it. A-and make sure it doesn’t get out, or that you’re caught again. Or—”

“I need a smoke,” Paul interrupted.

And with that, he pushed past the two and disappeared out of frame, leaving George and Ringo trembling in his wake.

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #ringo starr #mclennon #part 4 #chapter fic #ao3 #slight smut

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