Work Text:
"Y'know, some people say no one knows the real Bob Dylan."
Bob made a hum of acknowledgement, and George, unsatisfied with his lack of an answer, prodded further. "Do you think it's true?"
Bob Dylan huffed out the smoke and rolled his head toward George, with an exasperated, almost disappointed look in his eye. As if George was too smart to ask that kind of question. "What do you think."
George shrugged and nicked the cigarette from Bob's hand before he could take another drag. "You can die from these y'know," he said, just as he put it to his lips.
Bob looked at him, expression unreadable. George stared back, taking it as a challenge. But the longer they held their gaze the clearer it became that he was no match for Bob Dylan. Bob's smiled as George Harrison averted his eyes. He couldn't do it, what was he thinking?
"Do you want me to be so mysterious, George?" His voice was inquisitive, hesitant but not scared. George doubted he could even get scared.
"I don't know," George said intelligently. "Want you to be yourself, I suppose."
Bob tilted his head. "You don't understand do you." He said it like it had real weight. Like it mattered. But everything Bob says mattered, George supposed.
George's hand had begun nervously tapping on his knee; Bob reached out and gently held his wrist.
Before George could even ask a question, Bob brought it to his lips and pressed them against his hand.
"C-charming," George managed.
Bob smirked. "The great George Harrison, charmed."
George flushed. "Shut up."
The ex-Beatle George Harrison and the American wonder Bob Dylan were taking a stroll in the cold. Any time they finally began to warm up, the wind blew the chill back in their faces. Bob pulled up his hood but that only made the cold worse.
He expected a grumble about the wind from his friend, but what George said was not what he expected at all.
"You're not the most romantic, are you, Bob?"
Bob laughed brightly. "What gave ya that impression?"
"I mean," George said, intelligently. "You don't really have many love songs, y'know."
Bob's feet stopped. He found the scenery beautiful and wanted to watch it on its own terms. The lake was frozen over and the red bridge was cold to the touch. The winter had changed everything so much, only to leave and put everything back to the way it was before. He liked the symmetry. The way everything goes back to its proper place.
The sky was grey enough to not need his sunglasses, but Bob brought them anyway. He didn't want to be recognized.
George was silent beside him, still waiting for an answer. Bob will do so once he'd finished enjoying the scenery.
He also found the question a little personal. Invasive. He had to remind himself this was just George, not the press. He didn't like having his full character out there for millions of people to dissect. He didn't want to be a Beatle.
"That's an odd question," he said instead, vague enough to be plausible but specific enough to send a message. "In the beginning I just sang folk songs, traditional ones, you know. That's what everyone did at that time."
George smiled brightly. "I know. Your renditions of those songs are still my favourite."
Bob flushed a little. "Flatterer. Anyway. I do make love songs."
George rolled his eyes. "No, you make breakup songs."
"Same thing."
George gestured theatrically. "Just what I mean! That's the least romantic thing I've ever heard in my life."
"Well not everyone is the Beatles," Bob grumbled, resting his elbows on the bridge's edge. "My fans don't want me to sing love songs they can project onto."
"You'd be surprised," George said, cheekily.
"And I wouldn't want to make that kinda music anyhow."
George squinted. He leaned his back on the bridge beside Bob and grinned.
"But this time round it's more correct, right on target; so direct. You're gonna make me lonesome when you go," George sang softly. His slight rasp in his voice caused by too much smoking had made his voice almost perfect for the song. Bob found it touching that George knew more of Bob's songs than he did.
Bob Dylan flushed and smiled widely. "Your voice sounds way better than mine."
George raised his brow. "No, it doesn't."
Bob felt cheated. George shouldn't have picked a song from his most personal album. No matter how many times Bob had rewritten it to tone it down, cut songs like Up To Me, it was still his most vulnerable by far.
"That song isn't even all that romantic," George pointed out with a thoughtful hum. "It just sounds like you got issues, or something."
Bob raised his eyebrows. "Thanks."
"Didn't mean it like that, mate," George said. "Just that your most romantic song is almost as romantic as my least."
Bob rest his chin in his hand as he looked back to George. "And it's not like that's a bad thing. I talk about what I talk about in my music. I'm the one writing them, I don't see why I should be swayed by other's opinions."
George grinned, as if he just gotten what he wanted. Like he lay a trap for Bob and he fell for it. "There you are."
Bob made a startled laugh, uncomfortable under the attention. "What's up?"
George hummed, clearly delighted. "Oh, nothing. I'm just glad I got to see a little of the real you."
Bob stilled for a moment. That was unexpected. He turned back to George with a small smile. "You keep trying to figure me out and you'll crack that sharp brain of yours."
"You're acting like I'm made of glass."
Bob's eyes flicked downwards to George's arms. "You coulda fooled me."
Tom Petty must've been baked out of his mind when he came up with this idea.
Bob couldn't climb a couch let alone a mountain. George could barely handle it himself, but it was nothing like Bob's discomfort. He was shivering and straveging behind. Jeff had run up ahead, finding it easy—or more likely—he found it fun. George was so baffled at how someone can be so happy in a place so cold.
God, George had no idea why he agreed to this trip in the first place. Bob was practically dying.
"I've always wanted to go to Japan," Tom had to scream over the wind. "It's so pretty!"
"It's bloody cold, that's what it is!" George yelled back.
Bob's teeth chattered in response; he was too cold to do anything else.
George turned back down to Bob. He took off his overcoat and wrapped it around his shaky body.
Bob blinked at him, as if he was barely aware. His cheeks were red and his face was a pale white, his lips blue and chapped. George's concern took over and he hurriedly untied the scarf around his neck. He folded it over and gently wrapped it around Bob's head to cover his ears.
He held Bob by the arm and guided him up, not going to let him fall and go rolling down Mount Fuji.
"What's taking you slow-pokes so long?" Tom yelled down. "George, your coat?"
George grumbled as he climbed up, his grip on Bob's elbow tightening. Bob must've been too far gone because he didn't react at all, just following along, tripping over his feet like a zombie.
"Jesus, Bob," he muttered to himself. Bob laughed briefly. George smiled, but he didn't find it funny. "Glad to see you still have your sense of humour."
They continued their trek up the mountain, but with every fall and shuffle of Bob's feet, George's certainty grew. Bob needed to rest. After a few more minutes of hiking, they found a small metal cabin.
"Oya....oyas...u..." Jeff tried to read the sign, but wasn't able to finish it. "Anyway, I think this is a rest spot."
"A blessing from the Lord," George mumbled as he hauled Bob up the remaining hill. "Now, you two go up ahead. See if you can find Roy anywhere. Bob and I are gonna rest."
Jeff nodded and continued on his way. Tom stood there for a few moments, inspecting the two. "You sure you wanna miss this?"
George rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure I'm not missing much. Go on ahead, we'll catch up."
Tom turned on his heel and ran up the mountain, calling Jeff to wait for him.
The automatic doors swished open when George got near. The heat of the rest stop came like relief flooding into the outside. He held Bob's arm protectively as they sat down. There were large signs lining the walls with words he couldn't read, but the symbols were enough. "No smoking."
George unbundled Bob, taking his jacket and coat off, setting them down neatly on the seat next to them.
"Hey," George said softly, as if he was waking a baby. "You in there?"
Bob's shivering stopped and he rubbed his eyes. "Damn, it's fuckin freezing out there."
"Yeah, it is," George agreed. He reached his hand out to untie the scarf on Bob's head. "Here, let me get that for you."
Bob shook his head and grabbed the scarf protectively. "No, I like it."
George stilled, confused. "You...like it." He said slowly.
Bob nodded, the ice and frost slowly melting off him. "It suits me."
George raised his eyebrows and gaped at him for a few moments. He can't deny, Bob wearing his scarf was doing things to him. It was like a mark, or a claim, telling everyone who saw just who he belonged to.
The heat in George's body deepened and he couldn't blame it on the rest stop's heater. He brushed the thought away and swallowed thickly.
"If you like it so much, you can keep it."
Bob's eyes met his. His crystal blue eyes were sparkling with delight. "Really?"
George stared into his eyes for a few moments, in awe at someone could be so mysterious and untouchable—yet so precious.
George barely got himself to nod, his eyes so fixed on Bob's. He couldn't bear to look away. He let his gaze wander further down, wandering and meandering his way across Bob's face. The downturn of his nose was beautiful, his blue chapped lips were adorable and his eyes mesmerizing.
Even in this state, even when looking at George with a childlike wonder—even now he was still untouchable.
"Can't believe I agreed to this," Bob muttered to himself. "What kinda sweet-talkin' did Tom do?"
George laughed. "He didn't, just peer pressure."
Referring to Bob as his peer was strange. Bob was... Bob. Yeah, he was a Beatle and all, but he didn't write the type of life-changing music that Dylan did. The music coming out under his name is destined to be good. George could never match it, no matter how famous he was.
Bob noticed his staring and smiled. George felt like he was hit with a dozen of Maxwell's hammers. There was something about his smile.
Something...
Something in her smile, she knows...
Bob sat up and reached for their coats. "Come on, I'm ready to face the mountain again."
George followed him out the door, his eyes fixed on the scarf around his head.
"He's not a puzzle, you know."
George looked up from his coffee mug to Jeff, sitting across from him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," George lied, taking a long sip of his coffee. Touring was hard, but he was used to it. All the Beatles were. The coffee was smooth on his sore throat, but he couldn't blame anyone but himself and his smoking.
"You can't keep doing this, it's weird," Jeff continued.
George kept his eyes on the wall to his left. He was too tired for a serious conversation and there wasn't anything he was doing which was particularly wrong.
"It's like you worship him."
George shrugged and took another sip of his drink. "Maybe I do."
Tom came running down the stairs. He was fully dressed as usual, always prepared, that one. He glanced at them. "Talk to him yet, Jeff?"
Jeff shrugged. "Tried."
George didn't like this. He didn't like being left out or made to feel like he's in trouble. He left the Beatles for a reason, he couldn't handle being in something similar again. This group's lack of a John and Paul was probably the only thing making him feel more at home.
Tom and Jeff left him alone after that, however. Not bothering on trying to scold him. He appreciated it of course, but he couldn't exactly change who he was: a Dylan fan.
George downed the rest of his coffee and locked the door on his bedroom. He grabbed the guitar and strummed. He didn't think about what he would play, instead letting the first song that came to him. Like he was letting his mind relax in the early morning and his fingers do all the work.
"Although I know I'll never lose affection," George began, his throat sore and heart hurting. John's death still hurt like hell. "For people and things that came before."
For how much he fucking hates the Beatles, George couldn't bring himself to despise them. He loved them so much. The Beatles, those three friends of his, were his home. He loved them to bits, and it hurt to let them go. Most of the time he lets the bitterness rule him. It was always John and Paul anyway, there was no place for him.
But even now, it's like there's this Beatles shaped hole in his heart, even when, if given the chance, he wouldn't do it again.
"And I know I'll often stop and think about them,"
He couldn't say how many times he's thought about them after they broke up. He remembered each and every moment he did, but wouldn't speak of it to a single soul.
Because he loved them. But it was terrible. Being with them tore him apart from the inside out. And now he had a different group, one that prioritised their friendship over their music. One that he didn't feel excluded from. He wouldn't give up what he has now for the world.
What hurt most was how he felt exactly the same about the Beatles.
"But in my life," George barely registered the tears dripping onto his guitar. "I love you more."
He almost wanted someone to walk in, as if he were a teenager, as if he didn't lock his door. The loneliness pervaded his insides, he could feel it climb up his throat as tears spilled from his eyes.
He missed Ringo. He missed Paul. He missed John.
He wanted to scream into his pillow like a child. He wanted his mother to hold him. He wanted to hear John's voice again.
He set his guitar down and lay on his bed. He felt his tears wet his ears as he stared up at the ceiling. The ache in his chest didn't stop. It never had. It probably never will.
A knock came on the door. George stilled, holding back his sobs. He held his breath as the knocks came again.
"George?" Tom's voice came from the other side of the door. "You okay in there?"
George didn't answer. He turned on his side and held his pillow in his arms.
The knocks and worried voices didn't stop.
"Hey, you in there?" Roy began, but Bob interrupted him.
"It's been three hours, George."
George felt his chest tighten and he held his pillow a little closer to him.
"Come on, Georgie."
George didn't even know who said it, but he felt his heart ache with a bitter pang. Georgie is what John called him. Sarcastically, patronisingly, irritated, yes, but it was still what John called him.
The tears came again, leaving cold trails down his cheek and nose. He whimpered a little, holding his pillow tighter.
All this because he felt Tom and Jeff were leaving him out.
He felt pathetic. It didn't even matter. This was far too big of a reaction. And yet, he couldn't stop crying. He wanted to scream all his pain out until it wasn't there anymore. As if it were a dirty root in his throat he needed to remove.
He heard shuffling of footsteps and then a voice.
"Hey, George," Bob's. "The others have left. You gonna let me in?"
George didn't realise he had stood up and unlocked the door until Bob was already on him, hugging him tight.
"What the fuck, Harrison," Bob held him tighter. "You scared me."
George didn't move for a moment, terrified he would scare this new Bob away. Bob never went out of his way to hug anyone, let alone George. He eventually got over himself and gently hugged back. "Give you a fright, did I?"
"That's an understatement."
Bob pulled back and looked him over. "Your eyes are red. You okay, man?"
"Yeah, just did some weed," George joked, sniffling. He wiped his nose on his arm. "Was it really three hours?"
Bob Dylan frowned. "Yeah, man. We were getting worried."
George laughed a little. "I'm alright, just... remembering. Things. You know."
Bob nodded. "Yeah, I know. I know. Next time you're like this, I'm just a call away."
Bob Dylan had invited George to his room for the night. It wasn't an odd occurrence, they spent a lot of nights in the same room together—but George still felt his anxiety spike. He was in trouble, wasn't he? What was he thinking, he's not a child, he doesn't need to feel in trouble for anything.
Still, his hand was shaking when he knocked on the door. Bob welcomed him in and they sat side by side, smoking and listening to records together. It was nice, other than the looming fear of something unsaid—something that will be said.
Bob was wearing George's scarf. Well—it wasn't his scarf anymore, but it still made something unnamed stir inside him.
"George," Bob said after a long drag of his cigarette. George stiffened beside him. Here it goes. "I'm not some mythical creature."
George blinked in confusion. "Wh...what?"
Bob deflated a little and looked over at his friend. "You treat me like I'm some untouchable celebrity. You know there's nothin' to figure out about me right?"
George stared at him. "I..." He swallowed. "I just... I'm just worried. That you'll leave me or something."
Bob rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't got that kinda power over people, George. You're a Beatle, you should be the one who's worshipped and shit."
George tensed and bit his lip. "I really don't want to be a Beatle, you know. I'm just George."
Bob's stare was chilling. He looked into George's soul and passed with his clear blue eyes. "That's it. I'm just Bob. Just Robert. You don't needa treat me like I'm hiding something. Like I'm inhuman or divine."
George nodded. Bob turned away from him as he took another drag of his cigarette. George couldn't help but feel like a scolded child. Like he was caught in doing something he shouldn't have.
"I know about your recordings," Bob added. George went pale and still. "I'm flattered, I just...wish it was about me, Bob. Not Bob Dylan."
"It is about you," George blurted. Bob turned his head to look at him, his expression telling him he didn't believe it in the slightest. "It really is, I really like you."
"You like the idea of me or the actual me?" Bob asked.
George exhaled, shakily, wondering how to put this. He couldn't lose Bob, not after everything. He couldn't be without a home again. "I...it's not your ideas. It's...you. You came to my room and cheered me up — you go on walks with me, smoke with me... you know I don't think you're..."
"You treat me like I'm untouchable," Bob muttered into his cigarette. "When I'm right here." He opened his palm and laid it down next to George's thigh. "I'm right here."
George couldn't breathe if he wanted to. He took Bob's hand in his, watching as the American eyes turn to him with an unreadable expression.
It was Bob who moved first, placing his hand on George's shoulder and leaning forward. George closed the gap between their mouths and pressed them together. Closed lips and just steady pressure at first.
Bob was also the first to pull back. "See? Real."
George pulled Bob back towards him by the scarf. He felt Dylan's breath on his mouth when he whispered against his lips. "Real."