Mademoiselle Kitty (Macca4Ever) One Shots

Dear Friend (McHarrison)

Ten bloody years.

Paul glances into the rear-view mirror and finds George, who's sat behind him. Has it really been a whole decade since they first became friends, back at the Inny?

And will they ever be more?

He casually asks George if he wants to share a room. Uses the excuse of wanting to go over the new bassline of their latest record, says he wants to make sure it doesn't clash with the guitar solo. George doesn't seem to think anything of it and agrees before turning back to Ringo, continuing their banter as if there never was an interruption at all. Paul nods at nobody in particular, trying to hide his excitement about sleeping in the same room again. If he's lucky, they'll have to share a bed. That would be nice.

He remembers the first time they slept in the same bed. It was a hitchhiking trip to Wales, to visit his cousin, whose name is Paul as well. The McCartneys are a creative bunch - except when it comes to naming their offspring. Then again, there are millions of them. But that trip had been something else. His mum was still alive, then. Why she allowed two teenagers to hitchhike across the country is beyond him, but he's glad she did.

At first, when they woke up in that narrow bed, he had thought it was just a wet dream. Well, he was definitely wet, but the dream had continued after he'd awoken from it. George was really wrapped around him, holding onto him like he was his teddy bear. In the few minutes it had taken George to wake up too, he had been hard as rock and ready to burst again. So had George, but then they were kids. Waking up hard was part of the deal. The explanation had been even simpler:

Brigitte Bardot.

It was the easiest way to explain away his stiffie. Who didn't fancy her, after all? They'd wanked together, then. Just for a laugh, because why not? But even if it had just been a game for George, it hadn't been for him. Of course, he wasn't a completely soft lad, so he hadn't shied away from the challenge to see who'd last longer. Paul had won, of course. He was nine months older, after all. Nine months of practice was a very long time, then.

Little Georgie. He was always nine months younger than him. Still is, actually. Such a tiny thing he was, then. Nearly a head shorter than Paul and so, so thin. Well, he's certainly grown into his sticky-out ears, but he'll always be little George. Though, perhaps, not that little... Not anymore, anyroad.

He glances in the mirror again and licks his lips. Will he ever know?

It's been ten years. Ten years of looking at those dark, sultry eyes, ten years of hearing that hypnotising voice, ten years of getting lost in that lopsided grin.

They both grew up in Speke, he and George. He only part of his childhood, but still. And yet, he never managed to acquire that tell-tale drawl George has. He loves George's accent. Tries to mimic it sometimes, but it's never quite right. People can tell he's Scouse. Of course they can. But nobody ever asks him if he's from Speke.

Nobody ever asks George, either. They don't have to. Out of all the Scouse variants, he likes George's the most. He can just listen to him for hours. Sadly, he doesn't always feel like saying a lot. But when he does, he won't shut up for ages, and Paul'll just lap up every word and still feel thirsty for more when George runs out of things to say.

There have been times when he wanted to do something about it. Experimenting has become the only way to keep from getting too bored, and he has considered using that as an excuse. Even considered pretending to be kaylied and simply kissing George to gauge his chances. If worse came to worst, he could simply blame it on the alcohol. Nobody would think anything of a drunken indiscretion, after all.

Now that they've made it big, he doesn't feel like it's a good idea to even risk it. What would people think? What would George say? It could very well end the band and he doesn't want that on his head.

So he takes what he can get. Even now, being the most famous pop group in the world, they only ever get two rooms. And he'll share his with George whenever he can, always hoping the room has only one bed.

So they can cuddle.

George always cuddles in his sleep, and Paul wants him to. Oh, how he wants him to. There are many things he wants when it comes to George, none of which he can have. Because of the band.

Instead, he settles for girls. Endless, faceless, countless groupies, aching to get their ten or fifteen minutes with a Beatle. Sometimes, he gives them more. Tries to make himself believe he likes that one, takes a little more time to woo her. Not that they need wooing. All he ever needs to do to get them wet is look at them and say hello. He doesn't even have to make an effort. Most of them don't even know what an orgasm is, and the ones that do don't need any help getting there. Being the cute one has its benefits.

Except when it comes to the one person he does want. To George, he's just Paul. A mate, someone to yell at sometimes. Someone to share a microphone with, every night. But that's as far as that goes. That's as far as that is likely to ever go.

When the limousine pulls up to the hotel, he obediently follows John out into the street. He does his thing like he always does. Smile and wave, smile and wave. Ignore the screams. Smile and wave. Put a hand on John's shoulder and make it look like a friendly gesture.

He wishes John would just wear his glasses so he wouldn't have to be his seeing eye dog. Who decided that was his responsibility, anyroad? Smile and wave, smile and wave. Say something witty to the reporter, wink at the camera, stick up a thumb. Be the cute Beatle, everyone expects it. Smile and wave.

He follows Mal's instructions and shepherds John into the building and away from bedlam, wishing it was George's shoulder he's clutching. John's cool, he's his best mate. Richie's cool, too. But George... George is the coolest. And he wants him. But he can't have him. Perhaps, in ten more years, after the bubble every single reporter asks them about has burst. Maybe then. But not now. Not in the middle of Beatlemania. Not in...

Which country are they in, again?

He goes into his room, to see if it's a nice one. It is. It isn't very light or spacious, and the decor is dead ugly. But, it has just one bed, and it's a small double at that, so that makes it a very nice room. He can't have George, but he can have his cuddles. It'll have to be enough.

*****

George walks into the room right after Paul. One bed; they'll have to share.

His heart leaps up. Then it sinks again. So far, cuddling up to him hasn't made Paul aware of his true feelings, so why would this night be any different?

Back when they were kids, and everything was possible, he hoped it would be a way to ease into more. Paul seemed to assume it was just a habit, rather than a come-on. So, he kept doing it, hoping the penny would drop, and because he likes nothing more than to be so near to Paul that he can breathe in his scent. It reminds him of home, and to hm, nobody smells better than Paul.

Nobody feels better either, so even though it's never quite enough, he'll hold him whenever he can and silently prays for the message to sink in. So far, it hasn't helped him get any closer to what he really wants. He wonders if there will ever be a day when he shares more than just a hug with Paul.

Ten bloody years. It's a very long time to love someone who doesn't love him back.