A loud knock came from outside the bedroom door.

John's heart froze immediately. He mumbled a frantic 'shit' under his breath. It was unlocked.

The boys had been stuck in this hotel for what felt like years, with the wind howling fiercely outside and the threat of hurricane Dora striking childlike fear into their systems.

They all tried to hide it, but even John, born in the midst of his neighborhood being bombed, was secretly scared out of his wits over this. The tour seemed like it was going to absolute shit, with them arguing with these bigoted assholes trying to segregate their audience, and now even Mother Nature caused harsh rain to slam against the windows and rattle them at nights.

They found ways to occupy their minds though, from betting on cards to drinking games to those famous wanking circles making a comeback.

That was a problem as well.

The storm made it difficult for anyone to leave or enter the hotel, and that included the girls.

George particularly had anticipated this stop on their American tour, dreaming about tan, sun kissed bodies and the lack of clothing to cover them up. He'd never get in a good shag though, at this rate. The only decent looking woman he'd encountered within the hotel was a young lady that came in occasionally for room service, and she didn't seem too fascinated with the band's presence in the least.

The lanky guitarist had just finished speaking with Brian and Ringo in the lobby while he scarfed down a blueberry muffin that he'd gotten for breakfast, and now he had to relay the information back to Paul and John. It turns out that the issue over the segregated fans had been resolved without too much of a fuss, and they would still get to play their Florida concert.

George knocked on the bedroom door twice, slightly put off by the silence around him. John and Paul had been watching television when he left, making silly commentary on the actors' performances. Now they were apparently in their room, and not a word was coming from inside.

"Oi, it's me." He said as somewhat of a warning, before swinging open the door.

John didn't have time to cover up the embarrassing clues as to what was about to go down. He was caught; not a thread of fabric on his body and a rather proud erection resting on his stomach as he lay on his back. His mouth dropped and a burning, insanely red color painted it's way onto his cheeks.

It's not that he was embarrassed to be naked in the presence of George, but under these certain circumstances his luck couldn't get much worse. Paul was in the adjoining bathroom, most likely unaware that someone had come in.

George tried to stutter an apology, his hands up in a 'I was never here' kind of way.

"Wha'? Never seen a bloke in the midst of wankin'?" John asked uneasily, the edge in his voice dying out. He tried feebly to cover himself up with the bedsheets, clearing his throat pointedly.

"Um, I'll uh, let you get back to that." The younger boy muttered, taking a step back towards the doorframe.

Something didn't seem all that right to him, especially the fact that John was being so cautious and jumpy about something so common as getting off. He was about to leave, when suddenly, he remembered why he came up here in the first place.

"Oh, John- I just had a talk with Eppy, says they've worked out everything and-"

"Get out." John said quickly, interrupting him mid-sentence after hearing the sound of the bathroom doorknob rattling, about to open.

"But Bri said t-"

"Out!" John barked, panic-stricken.

It was far too late. Paul came from the bathroom with a bright smile, bottle of lotion in hand and unashamedly bare.

Poor George had an idea of what he had accidentally stepped into, and in response his face noticeably paled, muttering to himself about never listening to Brian again. He knew he should turn and go, mind his own business, but he just had to make sense of this without letting himself believe that John and Paul were.. they were..

"Why- why is George in here? John, you fucking idiot, I told you to lock the door!" Paul stammered, his face reddening.

It was a contradiction to his body language, how he didn't seem to tense up or try to cover himself when being stared at curiously.

"I was focused on other things, mind you. It's alright, Mac. George won't tell, will you?" John cajoled him, his voice oddly monotone and his smile sickeningly sweet.

He stood up and went to stand by Paul, eyes zeroing in on the youngest Beatle, who shook his head slowly, dumbfounded.

John rested a hand on his partner's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. George felt an odd sensation in his stomach, seeing the complete protection John had for Paul. It was unlike any way he'd seen them behave around others, and a huge wave of realization hit him, one in which he finally knew how much he was not included in within their group.

He resented the two songwriters in many ways but had always kept that emotion buried deep inside of him, wanting to keep the peace and let himself fade into the back with Ringo, as per usual. But this secret!

It was too much to know he'd been oblivious to it, and probably for some time, considering how close the two seemed to be. They were about to shag, for Christ's sake!

"No, I won't tell anybody. 'M sorry if I made you feel bloody uncomfortable, God forbid." George spat out dejectedly.

His head was spinning circles around itself. Didn't he find this revolting at all?

He turned to the door, exiting the room quickly. Getting the hell out of the hotel was impossible, but he could always hide out in the bar and pretend this morning had never happened. That felt like a refreshing idea.

-

Everyone filed into the sitting room that evening, quietness thick in the air and boredom inevitable. George, Ringo, and Paul took the sofa and John and Brian got the separate armchairs, settling down for a coffee and a nice chat before bed.

Paul was restless; bouncing his knee and habitually scratching at the side of his nose. He spoke in distracted tones and broken sentences when addressed, hardly hearing about the upcoming set list and their plans for the next couple of weeks.

He wasn't the only one that couldn't think straight; John studied him with concern and squinted eyes, not liking how worried his mate was about George knowing about them being 'together'. Whatever they were.

He'd been cuttingly distant from him after the incident that morning, not accepting any attempts at kisses or consolation. "Not now." He'd scowl, bitchy and abrasive, not at all like his usual loving self. He was seriously put off by knowing his childhood friend had seen him about to jump John's bones like one of those obsessive fan girls waiting for them outside of their hotels and screaming their ears off.

Paul stared at George when he was wrapped up in the conversation around him, deep in thought. Did George think of him lowly now, could they still be mates and get along alright?

George didn't seem to preoccupied with either of them at the moment, opting instead to focus his attention on Brian and Ringo. A deep sigh echoed around the room; from who, was really unimportant. The feeling was all around mutual.

-

One by one they disappeared into their bedrooms, the dull day coming to an end. It was a funny coincidence, though, when only three were left.

George fidgeted uncomfortably, thinking maybe he should retire for the night as well and go crawl into bed with Ritchie. The thing was, though, he didn't know if he could put up with another fitful attempt at sleep when loud snoring was dangerously close to his ear and blankets were being pulled away by the unconscious drummer.

So he sat.

John was increasingly annoyed by the tension shared between them, eventually just groaning exasperatingly and deciding he'd have to be the one to address the elephant in the room.

"So. Paul and I fuck. Is tha' going to be an issue?" His tone was brash and unwavering; eliciting a gasp from a rather flushed bassist.

"John, what th' hell?" Paul demanded, doe eyes wide in surprise. His neck and cheeks were burning in embarrassment, nearly to the point of stuttering out some lie about how this had all been some sort of joke.

But it appeared that George wasn't going to make it too painfully awkward for him. He took the admission bravely, nodding to himself.

"I'm not disgusted by it if that's what you're worryin' yourselves over." He said quietly.

There was a lace of sadness within those words, thick with some emotion that couldn't be identified. George's eyes sincerely met Paul's, and he knew then how screwed he was.

He was far too late, and never even tried from the beginning when he realized John was taking his place as Paul's best friend. He could have said or done something years ago, and none of this would have happened.

His chest ached as Paul broke eye contact with him and looked to John.

Always your second choice, aren't I? Sometimes I'm not even bloody considered.

"John, let me talk to George, please. Alone." Paul said softly, which surprised all three of them.

"You should be able to say whatever it is in front of me, as well." John replied, making no move to go into another room.

He sat in his armchair defiantly, and to make his point, crossed his legs with his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. Paul sighed at the childish behavior, rubbing his temples agitatedly.

"Fine. C'mon over here, George." He said, patting the vacant spot next to him on the sofa.

He offered up a gentle smile, ever so Macca-like, and George couldn't argue with him at all. The younger boy stood and walked the short distance, plopping onto the couch lazily. His long moptop got into his eyes and he brushed the hair away with annoyance, all the while looking at Paul curiously.

"Get on with it, then." He said playfully.

Paul was staring at him with those stupid, big droopy eyes, his stupid lips pursed and that idiotic look at was on his face; the expression he only normally used on John.

As much as George loathed it, his stomach was doing flips, really, afraid Paul could read his mind or something. Why else would he be staring at his lips - other than to tease him and ridicule him for getting jealous over his affections?

"Georgie.. Is something wrong, love? I know this is a big shock and all, but I want us to still be mates. I need you in my life, too, y'know. You're my baby brother." Paul was using that ridiculous, insanely compelling maternal voice that he sometimes adopted, concern radiating from him.

George scoffed.

He didn't know where he got the courage to say what he did next; perhaps it was just all the build up of emotion he'd been through that day. Maybe he was going loony because of the storm outside, being trapped in that damn shabby hotel.

"That's just it, that whole fucking 'brother' thing! Why did that have to be me? I've bloody known you the longest and suddenly Lennon comes along and I get pushed out of the way. He gets to be your best friend, lover, whatever the hell he is to you, and I'm just some kid along for the ride. Fuck you, Paul."

John sat across the room with his eyebrows raised, a slight smirk beginning to take form upon his face after the initial waves of shock passed. He had this all figured out now, and couldn't help but to point it out.

"He's jealous of me, bloody hell. Wants to be your 'lover', Paulie." John laughed harshly, making little kissy faces and a loud, lip-smacking sound to match.

"You're being a prick, John." Paul said quietly.

He rested his hand on George's knee silently, searching for some sort of answer within his eyes.

He found it within his lips instead.

George was tired of the wondering, tired of sitting back and let his opportunities pass him by. He knew what he wanted, and just because he would never get it, doesn't mean he couldn't try.

He leaned in, meeting Paul's lips with awkward angling and deliverance, but soon he got the hang of it. He tasted and caressed the chubby pink lips; the lips that told him stories on the bus rides to the Inny. The lips that shared bottles of soda with him when soda was a rarity and he hadn't carried any money, lips that chose John over him. His hands ran through thick strands of raven, sighing against that mouth that was compliant to his and let him take what he needed.

George was ecstatic; 'take that, Lennon!'

It was an odd victory, but he found himself smirking anyways, his tongue grazing over the bassist's luscious lips. Paul actually moaned a little, panting softly in between sweet kisses.

John, well, he was rather livid, to say it politely.

"Get yer fuckin' face off of my boyfriend!" He jumped up from his seat, voice low and dangerous.

Paul pulled away from the kiss and cleared his throat, clearly out of breath. He had no idea why he let that happen. All he knew was that he felt something that made his fingertips tingle and his cheeks burn.

He stood up, stroking John's chest calmingly.

"Don't throw a fit over a kiss."

"You liked it. You wanted to kiss him, don't you deny it."

"I did." Paul confirmed confidently, not letting the accusing tone back him down this time.

He was confused as hell, but he wasn't about to lie in this delicate of a situation.

George rubbed his forehead and sighed, internally jittery. He'd gotten himself and Paul into this whole thing now, he'd never hear the end of it.

"Don't let it happen again. Do we have an understanding?" John was asking.

Paul licked his lips, shaking his head slowly. He sent a look back at George, eyes saddened and disappointed, before his gaze fell submissively to his feet, all former self assurance fading away. John made him feel like a bloody child sometimes, one that's done something awful and had to be scolded.

"Yes." He whispered.

He didn't know why he couldn't argue with it, after all John got away with hooking up to his heart's content and a whole lot of other shit.

"Good, now come to bed. We're to be awake early tomorrow and you know I'm useless without me sleep." John said in a slightly nicer tone, kissing his partner's forehead.

He took hold of Paul's hand, leading the silent bassist to the bedroom without another backwards glance. The only noise after that was the dull padding of sock-covered feet until a door closed.

You see, George didn't comprehend why it hurt so badly. Only that morning did he find out about the two of them, and his crush on Paul had never been anything more than a physical attraction, a curiosity that only held his attention for brief spans of time.

But now, as he sat rejected on the empty sofa - all he could think about was what could be happening in that bedroom.

Was John holding him close and kissing the back of his neck sleepily? Were they talking about him, about how pathetic and lonely he must be? He didn't want to know.

George decided he'd sleep on the couch that night, and snuggled up with a decorative, uncomfortable pillow and a thin quilt that smelled of cheap laundry detergent.

Rain poured steadily outside, the howling of the fierce wind reminding him of the storm of emotions brewing inside of him. The wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong circumstances. George learned that day to never fall for your best friend.

Even on accident.

// Okay so the thing is I've completely lost inspiration for writing and I have no clue why so I apologize for being away so long. Over Christmas break I'll try to write a new chapter of Memoirs of Melancholy ??? Love y'all