Mademoiselle Kitty (Macca4Ever) One Shots

Do You Want To Know A Secret? (Lennison)

"Whomever slept with George woke up with him wrapped around them." ~ Paul McCartney

1964

Do you know that moment when you wake up and all you want to do it turn over and kip a bit more but you can't sleep anymore? That was me, to a T. Even with my eyes closed, I could see the daylight. No bloody chance of falling back asleep with the fucking sun being that fucking bright. I tried just the same, mind. You can always give it a go, you know. So I buried my head back into the pillow and tried to clear my mind.

Well, I told ye it was going to be no use, didn't I? The more I tried to think of nothing, the more I became aware of everything. I heard the fangirls crying and screaming outside the building. Above me, people were stomping about their room like a herd of bloody elephants. I could smell the impersonal scent of the hotel sheets, mixed with a whiff of soap and nicotine. And I felt the weight of someone's limbs wrapped around mine.

"Geroff George," I grumbled, for it was of course none other than Harrison lying half on top of me - insolent little tosser. That is why I prefer Paul or Ritchie as roommates, you see. At least they have the courtesy to not cuddle up to me in their sleep. Unfortunately, I got paired up with the other guitarist in the band and wasn't it just my luck that we were assigned a room with nothing else to sleep in but one double bed. I managed to pry my left arm from the lad's death grip and tried to push him off, to no avail. If anything, the daft sod clung onto me even tighter.

I gave up on that battle and opened my eyes. The world looked perfectly blurry. Of course, it always does when I'm not wearing my glasses - which is 95 percent of the time - because I can't see the hand in front of my face without them. But it was even more hazy than usual. Being unable to do much else, I occupied my time by picking the crusts out of the corners of my eyes, and then those wet bits from between my lower eyelids. I flicked them about the room; not much else to be done with them is there? My sight was then restored to its normal state, a little less out of focus than a minute earlier. Without much else to entertain myself, I focused my gaze on our youngest band member.

I could just make out his features beyond that dark, tangled mop he calls Arthur. His thin, angular face was just a picture of quiet serenity, which was a rare event. Whoever nicknamed him the Quiet Beatle must have met him when he was asleep because that's just about the only time he ever shuts his gob, you see. Well, that, and when he's stuffing food into it. Although.... More often than not, he'll just keep nattering on with his mouth full. Not even Paul talks that much when it's just us lads, and that's saying a lot.

But anyroad, when I strained my eyes, I could just make out that he must have been dreaming, for his eyeballs were moving beneath the closed lids. Must've been a nice dream, too, considering how happy the blighter looked. It was rather a beautiful sight, really. Hang on a mo'... beautiful? Whatever am I saying? Why not just say 'peaceful', or even 'touching'? That would be alright, if not borderline queer.

Then again, 'touching' was one way to describe the scene if I were to be literal about it. But why on earth did I choose that moment to become aware of the way young George was in close contact with certain parts of my anatomy? That's the last thing I wanted to be thinking about. No, scratch that. The way my body was responding to it was what I wanted to think about the least. I tried to convince myself I had already been in that state. It was the morning after all, and how else would a healthy 23-year-old bloke wake up? But deep down, I knew something... erm, increased just then. There was an infinite supply of adjectives to describe that too, and 'beautiful' wasn't one of them.

Right?

As if on cue, George stirred. It seemed I was finally going to be released from my embarrassing predicament.