Chapter Text
Autumn was always the most depressing of seasons.
It was the season when things died and the wind howled and the sky cried. A season of mourning, of death, of rotting vegetation. Autumn was a warning for those alive: a warning that more bitter times were to come. Animals fled and adapted, went down south or bundled up to wait for better times. Times of snow melting, of plants becoming green, and of the world becoming a little more colourful. In the meantime, people had to suffer through, find their own spots to hide, make sure they would only go out when absolutely necessary.
Generally, phone boxes were not considered to be a peak hiding spot to sit out the more vile weather.
They should never be, really, except in emergencies. They were phone boxes, not a comfortable seat at one’s local pub. Many people were even reluctant to make a call using a phone box, vehemently against pressing something against their face that thousands others had as well. The hesitation one had before making a call in a phone box was perfectly understandable. Of course it was!
It was also no secret to anyone who knew him that George Harrison, 29, ex-Beatle and amateur gardener, found himself understanding that sentiment very much. He himself fostered an unadulterated hatred for making a call with a phone box. And of course, like many others, it wasn’t calling in particular that he despised; no, when to the right person, George loved to babble into a receiver. He didn’t mind waiting for someone to pick up, didn’t mind talking for hours on end and racking up his phone bill more than could possibly be legal. Indeed, it wasn’t the action of calling that unnerved him; it was the public part that did it.
Public phone boxes were disgusting. It was an issue more people should be aware of, more people should acknowledge, and more people should be urged to fix this terrible issue pronto. Even phone boxes in the most prestigious or lovely of places were gross, littered with empty bottles and candy-wrappers and cigarette butts, smelling faintly of piss or spoiled milk. The phone itself was always weathered with age, smoothed over with use, stained the face oils and skin cells of other men. It was downright revolting. George would very much like to sue whatever brilliant politician had decided to make cuts on cleaning something as often used as the fucking public phone boxes. Even providing some simple alcohol wipes would have been grand - or, perhaps, an all-round banning of public phone boxes, and instead privatised ones. Ones that got sanitised regularly.
Alas, public phone boxes existed in all their never-been-cleaned glory. Not just useful for making a call, they were also useful as a stellar temporary protection against harsh weather conditions. And as today the weather had taken quite a turn for the worse, George, to everybody’s surprise including his own, had taken refuge in one of them ghastly boxes.
It was disgusting and smelly but it was dry, and, most importantly, it had a working phone. Contrary to popular belief, he was somewhat okay with using a phone box when he had to make a call. At this exact moment he did, though the very thought of numerous fingers, all of which he had no idea where they had been, having touched the very handset he was holding up to his ear right that second made his skin crawl. It was a miracle he managed to battle through the urge to gag. It was necessary, this use, lest he have to rest in this very box: he wasn’t very keen on using old cigarette butts as a pillow and a whiff of piss as cologne.
With the speaker beeping in his ear, George pushed the toe of his boot against the tail-end of an old smoke, ripping open the paper as he dragged it across the concrete. Ironic, perhaps, that he’d been so impossibly impulsive that he’d had to resort to using the very thing he despised most to get where he wanted to go. Or, at least, that he was desperate enough to use it.
His free hand was stuffed in the pocket of his coat, fingering a stained note John’d given him some time last year. It’d gotten soft with wear, nearly tearing at the fold; the phone number it carried was barely legible at this point. He’d managed to make out the numbers despite it, and had dialled it with trembling fingers.
John’d given him the note. “Use it sometime, when ye feel up to it,” he’d sneered, voice cranky, eyes sharp, and breath laced with upcoming intoxication. The note’d been pressed into his hands with the sharp, unpleasant aftertaste of anger, tainted with John’s soft cologne. “He’ll be right pissed. Works like a bloody charm.”
It wasn’t so that he’d been planning on using it, though he’d agreed and promised to at the time. The memory of patting John’s shoulder, accepting his sloppy hug and laughing into his neck felt nearly painful, now, because he’d been just as heartbroken and hateful and angry. No matter how much he expected to forget about the note all together, he’d been aching to hit him where it hurt most. There had been an innate need to piss him off, rile him up and get him to yell and spit curses into the receiver and allow George to return the favour.
And it’d happened. He’d ended up calling multiple times, though no more than two: drunk, bitter, angry conversations he now barely remembered ever happening. He’d wake up next to the telephone with swollen eyes and a dry mouth and a crick in his neck, miniscule fragments of slurred insults flitting through his brain. Perhap it was silly, but he’d regretted it every single time, still did. And now insults were the last things he wanted to exchange with him.
The line crackled. He jolted back into attention, hit his elbow against metal, bit down on his lip to suppress the flinch in pain.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
A brief moment of silence followed. Breathing, boxy and artificial from the shitty line, travelled from the speaker through his ear. His heart was beating irregularly.
“...George?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, and he leaned against the glass walls of the phone booth. The cold seeped through his coat, crept into his shoulder. He suppressed a shiver. “Hullo, Paul.”
“Wha-” Paul cut himself off. He swallowed audibly. “What’re you callin’ me for? Do you know what fuckin’ time it is?”
George’s heart sank at the obvious anger despite his lack of surprise. He gripped the receiver a little tighter, squeezed his eyes shut. “Could I- God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I shouldn’t- you’re probably too busy right now and-”
“Are you hammered or something?” the exhaustion was clear in his voice, and George cringed at his own stupidity. Idiot, idiot- “Why are you calling?”
“I-”
“If ye don’t fuckin’ tell me I’m gonna hang up.”
Panic surged and George swallowed a gasp. “No, wait-”
“Well?”
“I’m in Campbeltown.”
A beat of silence stretched on for far too long. George bit down on his bottom lip again, caught a loose piece of skin, ripped it off.
“You’re what?”
“I’m in Campbeltown,” he repeated, swiping his tongue over the broken skin and nearly gagging on the taste of copper, “and I was wonderin’- I was hoping whether ye could, I dunno, pick me up, maybe?”
A deep, audible sigh.
“You don’t have to. If you- if you don’t wanna, I’ll jus’ find a place to stay for the night and go back in the mornin’, I can do that-”
“George,” Paul interrupted, “are you near the harbour?”
“What?”
“Are ye near the harbour? There’s a little park nearby too, if that helps-”
“I-” he twisted his body around, trying his best to detect some greenery under the yellowed glow of street lanterns. “I think so?”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” Paul said. He sounded exhausted, like he was being forced into something he didn’t want to do; George’s stomach twisted with guilt. “Don’t move too much.”
He hung up quicker than George expected. It wasn’t all that far-fetched to presume that Paul would hang around a little bit longer, providing awkward silences and unfinished sentences, inviting him to play the game of who’ll-hang-up-first. It’s what he’d always done. But he’d hung up, and George had to stare at the plastic casing of the telephone for a moment, heart thundering and stomach rolling, before he could place the receiver back onto its base.
He stepped out of the phone box as if in a daze. The temperature barely registered as the wind whipped around his form, cold and biting, and he nearly tripped over a wonky brick. Catching himself just in time, George shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He needed a fucking ciggie.
The fingers of his right hand closed around the rectangular carton of his cigarettes he’d hastily stuffed into his coat before he left, fingers of his left clutching the cold metal of his zippo. It was easy to flick open the box with his pointer finger, take one out, and put it between his teeth; it was significantly less easy to spark the zippo to life with the wind going absolutely mental around him. Though his lighter generally could withstand worse conditions than this without extinguishing, he nevertheless protected the fire with his hands and inhaled into the flame.
The nearest bench sat across from the harbour. It was a bit damp from the mild rain but it was sturdy, and it was a bench, and he couldn’t really ask for more - except, perhaps, a warmer coat. He hadn’t brought anything except the clothes on his back, his wallet, and a pack of cigarettes - and the half-empty flask tucked carefully into the pocket in the lining of his winter coat. It’d been full when he left; it was half-empty now.
He was perfectly well aware of the downright foolish nature of drinking on an empty stomach, but George felt miserable enough not to care. He rarely did. Not that he had an issue with alcohol, really. He was able to go weeks without drinking, generally didn’t feel the itchy, daily need to have a swig like he did with nicotine. After living his entire life thus far dealing with his problems on his own terms, the bottle was simply easy to grab whenever he felt down. It softened the pain. Not too much, not too little; just the right amount of numbness was enough to get through certain periods of his life.
Over the violent hum of wind he could hear sudden chatter and music of some pub echoing through the darkness, before stopping abruptly as the door fell shut. Someone sang a song, drunken and off-key, and George rubbed his freezing hands together before he tapped some ash off his cigarette. He imagined it being warm there, cosy, smelling like beer and smoke and laughter. It probably would’ve been nicer to stay there instead of on this bench, outside, where the wind cut into his skin.
But Paul was coming to get him, actually coming to get him, so he sat and waited and kept his gaze on the angry sea. The difference between the tumultuous water and the horizon was indistinguishable at this hour, all black and murky and cold; still, he decided against focusing on anything else, trying to make out white heads of foam topping angry waves and inhaling his cigarette faster than he should.
The smoke burnt in his throat as the wind howled in his ears and the sea screamed at his face and the sky cried on his body, but just a little bit. He could ignore the vague splattering of rain for now, it being no more than a minor inconvenience. At least it wasn’t pouring. At least he wasn’t wet.
A local man strolled towards him, some shepherd-breed of dog hot on his heels. Both only offered him a lazy glance without any discernible suspicion; perhaps, despite the way he looked right now, he didn’t look all too homeless. George tilted his head in greeting and the man, apparently up for socialising, suddenly sat down next to him.
“Lovely night, isn’t it?”
George shot him a closed-mouthed smile. “Bit windy for my tastes.”
“You’re not from here, are ye?” the man pursed his lips, making his impressive moustache rise, and furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “English?”
“Scouser, originally.”
“Liverpool?”
“Aye.” It wasn’t necessary to inform the man he’d moved away from home. “We’re a whole lot nicer than the southerners.”
The dog sniffed at the hand resting on his knee, before butting its cold nose against his pinky and licking his trousers. He smiled again, a little wider this time, and carefully stroked its head.
“Shirley likes ya,” the man proclaimed with a laugh. “Must be ‘cos you’re more from the north. She never likes strangers all that much. Guessin’ yer character is good.”
“She’s beautiful, as far as I can see.” He scratched her between the ears and she curled her back a bit, rubbing her flank against his leg. “Good girl, huh, Shirley?”
“She is,” the man joined him in petting her, rubbing the palm of his hand along her spine. “You on holiday, or just passin’ through? Forgive my curiosity, son. Strangers don’t visit all too often, fair as the town may be.”
George sighed quietly, scratched Shirley under her chin. “I’m visiting an old friend,” he answered. “Dunno for how long he’ll have me, but that’s why. Was a bit of an impromptu visit, this. Jumped on the bus early this mornin’.”
“From Liverpool?”
“Nah. Village close to London.”
“Christ, lad,” the man rumbled, obviously surprised, before he produced a hearty laugh. “You’ve been travelin’ for hours! Must be some good friend, then!”
His heart jumped in his chest, and he, for some godforsaken reason, nearly felt ashamed at his hesitance. In theory, Paul was a good friend: absentminded, yes, but caring and fiercely loyal. He could be counted as George’s oldest friend, the one who’d stuck by him the longest.
But he hadn’t. Not really. He’d vanished before his body could, years ago.
“Yeah,” he still ended up choking out, aghast at how difficult it was to say it. “Great friend, he is.”
“Well, in that case,” the man straightened up, shuffled an inch closer, and extended his hand, “ye might be here for longer than a day, and I might see ye again. In the pub, perhaps. Hamish Murray, pleased to make yer acquaintance.”
George flicked away his cigarette before he grasped Hamish’ hand in his, allowing the man to start enthusiastically shaking it up and down. Firm, secure. It was nice to meet someone who didn’t seem to be using a firm handshake for ulterior motives.
“George,” he answered quietly. “George Harrison.”
Hamish’ handshaking ceased. “Harrison,” he muttered, eyes bulging a little bit. “You wouldn’t mean-”
“Keep it quiet, will you?” Shirley had started whining, pushing at his limp, free hand with her nose, and he absentmindedly complied with her request. “Can’t have the papers know I’m ‘ere, now, can we? Paul’d throw a fit if any lenses showed up.”
“Of course,” Hamish released his hand, thrumming his fingers on his knees. “Fuckin’ scouser visiting an old friend who lives here… I should’ve known. A goddamn Beatle. My daughter adores you.”
George cracked half a smile. “Kinda hoped she’d think we were shite.”
The man laughed heartily, slapping George on the shoulder. “Don’t be too smart with me. I’m sure fame brought you some good things, too.”
George looked at him, trying his hardest to keep the smile on his face. It didn’t, not really, except financial stability and a freedom to create whatever he’d like. Good friends, even, were hard to come by and hard to keep. “Sure,” he quietly said, “some good things, too.”
Hamish slapped his shoulder again with a smile and sighed. “I need to be off, now, George,” and the nonchalance with which his name came out of the man’s mouth felt oddly nice. Like he wasn’t famous, just a normal lad sitting on a bench, having a conversation with an equally as normal man. “The other half is gonna nag me on where I’ve been if I don’t come home soon.”
“Of course,” he answered, ignoring the pang in his chest. “Of course.”
“It’s been a right blast talking to ye,” Hamish continued. He patted George on the shoulder once more before rising. “You’re a fun lad. Even more so, I bet, with a couple of pints in ye. I’ll see you and Paul dropping by the pub soon, I presume?”
“I’d hope so.”
“Good lad.” He laughed, started walking off, and whistled for Shirley to heel. “Have a good night, son.”
He called out a “likewise” and managed to smile at Hamish’ hand rising up, as an extra, silent goodbye. He watched as the pair became vague silhouettes in the light of the street lanterns, watched until the two turned a corner and disappeared from view.
And just like that, he was alone again. The wind seemed to pick up and the rain seemed to get heavier, like nature was punishing him for it, for sitting and waiting on a friend who’d never seemed to sit and wait for him.
Autumn was always the most depressing of seasons. No matter where he was, it was the season when things died and the wind howled and the sky cried, as if the latter two were mourning the former. There’d been a time he’d enjoyed the changing of the seasons; now, he’d much rather have eternal spring, when snow melted and the world came alive again.
But the world wouldn’t come alive any time soon. It’d continue to die, for now, settling into a death-like sleep and becoming cold and vile. George just huddled into his coat, hands tucked under his armpits and legs squeezed close together. He waited.