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02 August 2005 @ 12:00 am
 

Alright, I was bored and i tried to write a fabble...but it ended up being about 1,900 words...eh....I overshot a bit.

I got the idea, and realized it would make a perfect prequel to something I posted back in June: Poles Apart  http://www.livejournal.com/community/beatlesslash/371023.html#cutid1

So heres the new guy.  Someday I'm going to write some that takes place between the two stories, as a lot needs explaining, but this is the story my hands wanted to type out tonight.

Title: Leave
Rating: Let's go with R to be on the safe side.  Lots of cursing.
pairing: oh geez.  Paul/George, George/Ringo, Paul/John
AN: written to the song "Leave" by Matchbox Twenty  http://s38.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=0TIGIK8BKMNC50S6SNAQ97DTWI

He jammed his hands further into his pockets, shrinking down into his thin coat.  Mother Nature wasn’t going to cut him any slack, that was for sure.  Funnily enough, on the trip to Paul’s it had been so pleasant that he’d decided to walk.

 

Things change in the blink of an eye.

 

Now he wasn’t even sure where he was going.  He didn’t particularly care, just as long as he kept walking.  Stayed upright.  Because if he stopped, he’d probably never start up again, and as much as he felt like curling in a ball and dying he would’ve rather done it in the warmth of his bed, not the freezing English rain.

 

He shook so badly that it was a miracle he managed to move at all.  It wasn’t due to the cold and rain, and he knew it.

 

“George…I…. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this…Christ, I’m so sorry.”

 

He’d replayed the feeble line in his head for the last fifteen minutes, each time his heart broke.  George felt physically ill, thinking of all the events that had just transpired. 

 

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.”  His tone was trembling and uneven.  Shit, why couldn’t he have been more forceful?

 

“George, I…” Paul looked at him with tears in his eyes.  But they’d all been conditioned to act, hadn’t they?

 

“I loved you!” Loved.  Past tense.  Bullshit.  “I loved you, Paul!  Or did John say that too, right before you fucked him?!”  He was screaming, but his voice was getting weaker somehow.

 

“Please, just let me explain this.”  He pleaded, gently placing his hand on George’s shoulder.

 

“No explanation necessary.  I was a decent fuck, but I was no John Lennon, right?”

 

Paul grimaced, hard and obviously.  “Don’t you dare think, for one minute, that I never loved you!  George, I lov-“

 

“Save your fucking tears, McCartney.”

 

And he’d walked away without another word. 

 

Anger.  Jealousy.  Rage.  Sadness.  Fear.  They all boiled up inside of him.  There was no respite.  No quiet he could retreat into.

 

They had everything.  But even when they had nothing they’d had each other.  Real innocence lost to hard, unfamiliar streets.  They’d saved each other with tender kisses and warm reassurances.  They’d held each other so close that the rest of the world didn’t need to exist. 

 

It wasn’t some random fuck to him.  It never was, not even when they’d professed complete nonchalance about it.

 

What was there left to do?

 

The one person who could’ve brought him back from the mind-numbing pain, was the one who caused it.

 

George tilted his head up, catching sight of a cherry-colored telephone booth nestled in front of two unimpressive gray buildings.  He jogged the short distance, flinging himself inside the relative dryness of the small space.  The rain seemed louder from in here, echoing into his mind, making it impossible to calm down.  Leaning back against the wall, he slid down, scrunched tightly in a ball on the floor.  His eyes watched emptily was rainwater filled the streets.

 

He found himself hoping it’d rain forever and wipe this miserable city from the face of the earth.  Shakily he reached up and found the phone, dialing a warmly familiar number.  He waited impatiently, hoping against hope someone would pick up. 

 

“Ello?”

 

“Ritchie?” His voice cracked.  It took every single ounce of willpower he possessed to not break into sobs.

 

“Christ…George where are you?  What happened?  Fuck…. George, talk to me.” He responded, panicked but still sleepy.

 

~~~~~

 

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

 

It had been a constant streaming thought in his head from the moment he’d heard someone angrily slam his bedroom door.  He knew.  Even before he’d seen George’s tear-streaked face he knew who it was.  His heart was racing when he’d finally caught up to him in the front hallway.

 

“George!  Don’t go.  Please don’t go without letting me-“

 

The hatred in his eyes as he turned to face Paul made him instantly wither.  Part of him was hoping George would beat the shit out of him.  Scream.  Do something besides stand there looking like he wished Paul would drop dead instantly. 

 

“Letting you what?”  George responded harshly, his eyes watering, but his face hard and unforgiving.

 

Shit.  It was hard to imagine George could hate him more than he currently hated himself.  But he probably did.

 

“George…I…. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this…Christ, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Good to be out in the open, isn’t it, McCartney?”

 

Paul remained silent.  He ‘d never imagined it going this far.  Foolishly he’d thought it’d be a few times, tops.  George would never have to know.  He and George could keep stealing kisses whenever no one was looking.  They could keep fighting each other for control- in bed and everywhere else.  They could make love early in the morning, with the sun illuminating their slick bodies. 

 

What exactly had he traded that future for?

 

George gritted his teeth (like he always did when he had something to say, but couldn’t say it) His eyes squeezed shut, and then opened again.  And Paul, who had always had a way with words, couldn’t find a single damn thing to say.  There was no fixing this.

 

George turned, heading out for the door.  Paul’s mind screamed at him.  If he let George walk out that door he might never see him again. And that was something he would not allow to happen.  He grabbed George’s arm, spinning him around quickly. 

 

And then he did the one thing he knew always kept George with him.  One arm held him close by the waist, while the other tangled in George’s dark hair, pulling him into an aggressive kiss.  He prayed that it would go where all their fights did- an angry, passionate, needy lovemaking session.  They’d fight themselves into exhaustion and then collapse against each other, everything forgotten but the sound of ragged breathing and sweating bodies.

 

John Lennon didn’t even register in his mind as he forced his tongue into George’s mouth.  Drinking in the way he tasted.  Indulging in his current dominance.  Thanking God when George arched slightly into him.

 

But suddenly George pulled away violently, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

 

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.”  He uttered shakily.  His resolve was quickly fading.  Paul could see it.

 

“George, I…” Paul could barely breathe. Panic took over in his mind and his heart.

 

“I loved you!” George spat angrily, almost desperately. “I loved you, Paul!  Or did John say that too, right before you fucked him?!”  He was screaming, but his voice was getting weaker somehow.

 

“Please, just let me explain this.”  He didn’t even know what to explain.  How to tell George he loved him more than life itself.  That John had wanted to… that it had all been a horrible mistake.

 

“No explanation necessary.  I was a decent fuck, but I was no John Lennon, right?”  He sounded vicious but defeated at the same time.

 

 “Don’t you dare think, for one minute, that I never loved you!  George, I lov-” Paul was choking on his own tears, unable to even force his words out. 

 

“Save your fucking tears, McCartney.”

 

And then he’d slammed the door and stalked out into the storm.  Paul fell weakly onto the floor, feeling a cold emptiness encase his heart.

 

John had picked that moment to peek his head sheepishly out of the door.

 

“Is he gone?”

 

“He’s never coming back.”  Paul said quietly, not bothering to face John.

 

“Paulie…come back to bed.”  John cooed.

 

“Get out.”

 

“What?”

 

Paul jumped up from his sitting position, rage filling his body.  It fueled him.  “I said get the fuck out.  Now!”

 

And he had.  Leaving Paul alone in his big, empty house.

 

Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

 

Paul paced the wooden floors, wondering how George had possibly gotten home in this weather.  Wishing he were here, safe in bed, their bodies exhausted and entwined, with George’s head resting on his chest.

 

Paul wished a lot of things.

 

And then the phone rang, sending the teacup Paul had been nursing crashing down to the floor.

 

“George?!”

 

There was a long silence.

 

“I thought you should know, he just called me.  Which means he hasn’t done anything stupid and dangerous…. yet.”

 

“Where is he?”  Paul asked urgently, already tugging his coat on.

 

“Not anywhere near you, for his own sake.”  Ringo said abruptly, and then there was nothing but dial tone.

 

Paul dropped the phone limply back into the receiver, feeling his heart drop in his chest.

~~~~~

 

He scrambled out of the car, slamming the door shut.  The rain was almost blinding now, and as hard as hail.

 

“George?!  George!  Where the fuck are you?” His voice was lost in the wind and rain.  In the limited visibility he spotted the phone booth George had called from. 

 

He crouched down near the glass, giving it a gentle knock, and saw George look up at him, his eyes red and his hair messy around his face. 

 

Ringo smiled kindly, tilting his head as if asking permission to join him.  George nodded slowly He quickly stood, so that Ringo could squeeze into the booth with him. Ringo noted how George was soaked, and shaking, and looked completely out of it.  He opened his coat and his arms, curling them both around George’s thin frame.  He stood as steadily as he could, feeling George shake violently against him.

 

There was nothing he could do or say, he realized sadly, that would mend George’s heart.  He could call Paul a vicious bastard, and John a fucking prick, which happened to be true, but somehow he doubted it would make any difference.

 

“He fucked John.”  George said absently, facing Ringo with tearful eyes.  “He fucked John, Ringo!”  He restated, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.

 

“It’s alright…” Ringo said half-heartedly, knowing full well it wasn’t.  He squeezed back tears, not being able to stand seeing the obvious pain George was in.

 

“Why wasn’t I enough for him?  Why the fuck wasn’t I enough for him!?  Why the fuck did he have to do this to me?  What did I do-” He leaned back against the cold glass, feeling like his legs would give out at any moment.

 

Ringo wasn’t by nature an angry person.  In fact, quite to opposite.  But the rage he felt towards Paul at the moment was undeniable. 

 

“Stop blaming yourself, George.  Paul’s an adult now, he knows full well what he’s doing.”  Ringo said sharply, almost yelling.

 

“You have no idea what it’s like!”  George protested.  They were pressed so close together in the small booth that Ringo could feel George’s chest heaving against him.  “You don’t know what it’s like to know someone you love is fucking somebody else!  Knowing where his mouth has been, what his hands have touched! That he belongs to someone else”

 

Ringo leaned in, pressing a sweet, gentle kiss against George’s temple.  He slowly worked his way down, until his mouth met George’s.  And he knew it was wrong.  And maybe it was taking advantage of him, but if Paul couldn’t love him then at least he’d know someone could.  Someone did.

 

He knew it wasn’t just his mind playing tricks on him when George slowly responded.  His hands grasped onto Ringo’s hips, pulling him closer.  As much as his mind was screaming that he shouldn’t be doing it, Ringo couldn’t keep his hips from rocking gently into George’s.  He couldn’t stop his mouth from exploring the cold, soft skin on George’s neck.

 

Somehow he managed to pull back, breathing sharply.  He gazed up into George’s eyes, still full of tears and confusion. “You couldn’t be more wrong, love.”

 

 
 
Current Music: Leave- Matchbox 20
 
 
 
the_scouserthe_scouser on May 19th, 2011 11:50 pm (UTC)
Thank you, darling!!!