A/N: Hello, dear readers! Pardon my absence once again, musical is now over and I will (hopefully) have more time and inclination to write.

This is indeed chapter ten! I'm expecting ten more chapters until it's done, probably. Don't take that too seriously, though. I often change my mind.

George's POV

Going into my room in the hotel and slamming the door might not have been my smartest or most mature move, but my brain was far too haywire in shock to do anything that would be constituted as even mildly rational.

But could you blame me? Two of my best friends, two people I trusted and respected, had been hiding something huge from me for months! What was wrong with me? I thought, dropping my head into my hands. Didn't they trust me? I mean, I was sort of thought as the little kid trailing along after them, but I thought they were close enough to me to be able to tell me just about anything. I guess not.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. This whole John-and-Paul-are-in-love thing wouldn't have bothered me so much if those two had just had the balls to tell us. Would I have been shocked? Yeah, probably. But I wouldn't have felt so bloody awful about all the secret keeping.

What would happen to the band? Would Paul and John become so enamored with each other that they split off from Ringo and I to become their own little group? Neither Ringo nor I had the experience to keep our heads above water in the music industry if we tried to go off on our own. If that happened, I could pretty much kiss my musical career goodbye and head back to Liverpool to see if Blackler's had any jobs open for me. Back to being an apprentice electrician with the out of reach dream of being a musician. I'd still be playing my guitar but I'd never be famous again, just known as a washed-up Beatle.

I flopped back on the bed and pulled a pillow over my face, letting a few wayward tears trace wet streaks down my cheeks. Nothing made sense. Maybe I really was just a little, tagalong kid.

After an unidentified length of time I heard the door open. "George? You in here?" Paul's hesitant voice called.

"No," I muttered into the pillow. A slight depression at the end of the bed alerted me to the fact that he'd just sat down. "Go away," I mumbled. "I'm really not in the mood for talking."

Paul's POV

Between Ringo and George, George took the rather unexpected news of our relationship the hardest. It made sense, actually. From the Quarrymen 'till even now, George felt like he had to work the hardest because he was the youngest. It didn't help that John would rag the poor kid mercilessly when he was tired or in a sour mood, both of which occurred frequently. John felt like George was a younger brother to him, but I didn't really think he communicated that thought especially well.

I sat down on the bed. "Please talk to me, George," I begged. With great slowness, he pulled himself up into an upright position. His eyes were slightly red, signifying that he'd been crying. "Look, I'm really sorry that you had to find out this way—" I began, but George cut me off, his eyes colder than ice.

"Oh, you're sorry?" he scoffed. "You're sorry? You didn't have two of your best friends keep a secret from you for months because you'r apparently not trustworthy enough." I cringed at the venom in his voice as all of his emotions came crashing to the surface.

"It's not like that, Geo—" I started to say, but he cut me short again.

"Then what is it, Paul? What? And if you say you thought we'd react badly I'm gonna punch your fucking lights out because yeah, we might've been quite surprised, but it would've been a whole hell of a lot better than feeling like your friends don't trust you." His voice was strong and accusatory, but his lower lip had begun to quiver traitorously.

"Of course we trust you, George!" I said, shocked that he would think such a thing. "But you know that being queer for someone isn't exactly something you go parading about with. People have ended up in bloody prison for snogging in public! The general public views it as dirty or abnormal and we didn't know if you would too," I explained. "We were scared, and as stupid as it sounds, it's true."

George shook his head, suddenly looking very confused and very small. "Christ, I dunno what to think anymore," he muttered, putting his head on his knees. "It's not gonna, y'know... b'kupt'h'bnd." I frowned, trying to decipher the mashup of sounds. It took me a moment, but I got it eventually.

"Break up the band?" I asked quietly. "Absolutely not. As much as this relationship means to us, the Beatles means more. And we promise, no snogging, whether it be brief and chaste or long and impassioned, in the studio." I grinned tentatively, hearing a quiet chuckle from George.

I got up and turned to leave when George's voice echoed out. "Paul?" I looked at him. "Thanks," he said softly.

I went over to him and patted his shoulder. "No problem, mate," I said, ruffling his hair gently.

Later that week we finished our tour and went back to the studio for the first time in awhile. Even though John and I kept our relationship successfully out of our work, it still felt awkward. George and Ringo looked nervous the whole time we were in there.

Finally, John couldn't take it anymore and said, "Would you two please lighten up? You're looking at us like we're about to start going at it any minute." Dead silence echoed obnoxiously through the room as it's occupants slowly flushed impressive hues of crimson.

A tiny, embarrassed giggle from Ringo prompted chuckles, guffaws, and finally, outright laughter from the rest of us. I leaned against the wall, clutching my aching sides. It was more relieved laughter than anything for me, I could think of so many ways that that scenario would end badly.

Brian burst into the studio. "Boys, what on Earth are you doing?" he asked.

I held up a hand, indicating for him to wait until I wasn't crying from laughter. "Sorry, Eppy, I'm not exactly sure," I chuckled, wiping my eyes. He huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes, but refrained from comment.

Later that night, we lay in bed together at Kenwood, knowing that Cynthia and Julian were at her mother's. I drowsed lightly, taking comfort from the firm, warm heat that was John's chest against my back.

"Paul, you awake?" John whispered, pushing his face into the nape of my neck and rubbing my arm.

"Yeah," I murmured sleepily. "What's up?"

"I can't sleep," he confessed, sitting up. I sat up as well, pushing my hair out of my face.

"Me either," I said, reaching over to kiss him softly on the lips. "Why can't you sleep?" He flopped back on the bed, pulling me along with him so that I was laying on his chest.

"Just thinking, I guess," he murmured, encircling my waist in a strong hug.

"About what?" I asked, leaning my forehead against his, staring deeply into his chocolate eyes.

"You, me, us," he said. A question was fighting to get past his lips. "Paul? Why do you love me?" he asked quietly.

I kissed him before responding. "More reasons than I can ever begin to count."

"No, I'm serious," said John earnestly. "I got a bad bit of hate mail from one of those blokes whose girlfriends leave them because of us or some shit like that. He said, 'I don't know why me girl fell in love with a tosser like you. You're nothing special. You're a horrible singer, a shitty guitar player, and an even worse looking bugger,'" he recited, his voice growing more and more quiet with each word.

I took his face in my hands. "That was just some jealous guy, Johnny. You're a fab singer, a gear guitar player, and the single most handsome man on the planet," I whispered, kissing his forehead. "And, you're smart, funny, sweet, and a great kisser," I added, grinning.

John grinned wolfishly, obviously feeling a bit better. "You're not so bad yourself, McCartney," he whispered, pressing a passionate kiss to my mouth. Life was one big roller coaster ride it seemed, and ours still had a few ups and downs before we could coast happily.

A/N: Review?