1995

anthology

George scratched the back of his neck, trying desperately to focus. His cold mug of tea sat out infront of him, my fingers stilled on the fret board, still pressing firmly down on C, indenting his flesh. He exhaled, the noise of Paul on the drums like a bat to the head, Ringo's laughter- usually infectious and warm- now making him feel sick to his stomach as he set his guitar down, standing.

He was surprised he even managed to get up, and Paul shot him a questioning look.

"Where you off to, George?"

George shook his head, stepping past the jack-to-jacks on the floor, the camera crew following him. Paul huffed, but shrugged, Ringo tilting his head, smiling, but George just shimmied past.

As soon as the hall was clear, he practically sprinted (quick walked, but, come on, he was in his 50s) to his husband's (you) office, not bothering to knock before barging in and planting himself firmly on your lap and burying his face in your neck.

The camera crew stood still in the doorway, still dutifully filming.