Paperback Writer // McHarrison

Four

Tirelessly they worked until dinner time without any breaks. The conversation between them only ever faltered when they quietened to read, but otherwise, it was continuous. It turns out these two men had a lot to agree about. Harrison's office was often filled with laughter throughout the day but also with heated, intellectual debates. When the clock struck 7 o'clock in the evening, both of them were stunned at how time had passed.

"Do you have any plans for dinner?" Mr Harrison asks as they both slip on their overcoats and pack up the office for the night.

Mr McCartney's stomach ached with butterflies as he shook his mop-top of hair. "Not that I'm aware of." He answers softly.

With a tooth-revealing grin, Mr Harrison lead Mr McCartney out of the office and locked the door. "Well then, it is common practice that I pay for my author's dinner on the first night of editing." He said as the two men strolled contently to the elevator.

Mr McCartney's heart sank a little when the words 'common practice' were used but nonetheless smiled a small, sweet smile and nodded. "That would be lovely."

Little was he aware that never in Mr Harrison's life had he ever taken an author out to dinner after work, and never EVER had he offered to pay for his meal.

~•••~

The empty cafe rang with the echoing sound of Mr McCartney's laughter, bouncing off of the brick walls around them. A proud smirk sat upon Mr Harrison's face at having been the reason for the sound.

As they ate, the publisher noticed the sooty muck beneath the author's fingernails and remembered back to how grotty Mr McCartney had been when he first met him. "So," he starts, sawing at his steak with his knife. "Apart from writing socially difficult books, what is it you do for a living?"

Mr McCartney scoffs and shrugs. "You'll think I'm the most boring person on Earth if I tell you that." He murmurs and looks down at his meal with a shameful hue in his cheeks.

"Of course not. My first job was building picture frames." George admits with an encouraging smile. As Mr McCartney chuckles beneath his breath, he nods and swallows a bite of his meal.

"Fine then. I work on a steam train, shovelling coal and such." He utters and Mr Harrison's thick brows frown slightly.

"Boring? Why on Earth is that boring? Better than picture frames, I can tell you." He laughs before putting in his mouth the last of his meal and wiping his lips with a napkin.

"How did you enter the world of publishing then?" Mr McCartney asked as he leaned his elbows on the table with his chin resting on his fists.

"A friend of a friend knew a friend, that's all." He replies simply and the author rolls his eyes comically.

"That's all? That friend of a friend of a friend is the reason 'The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe' and 'The Catcher in the Rye' were ever published!" He exclaims but then abruptly goes quiet. "You know...if someone told me a month ago that I was going to be getting published, I would have told them they're crazy. Had they also told me you would be my editor, the best in the whole country - possibly industry, I would have sent them to a mental institution." He says with a soft but almost cheeky smirk.

Mr Harrison couldn't help himself from smiling back, his dimples forming in his cheeks as he looked in the eyes of the person he would be spending the next five months with - knowing he was going to enjoy every second of it.

"Do you mind me asking your first name?"

"Paul. Yours?"

"George."

It goes silent between the two men for a while as they both turn to peer out of the cafè window, watching the rhythmic rain started to beat down on the pavement outside.

Paul curiously turned back to George, a soft crease pressed into his forehead and his bow-shaped lips pursed. His mouth moved in mime as if trying to form words but there was no sound attached to the movement until he shut his lips and tried again. Even then, his words were less than comprehensive. "Surely, I mean- you must be. There's no way you're not- but um...I-" he clears his throat awkwardly into his fist and looks away from the more ever-so-marginally amused man in front of him. "Oh, nevermind." He chuckles at himself as he drags a hand down his face.

Forging a confused mask over his features, the publisher was truthfully not confused at all. He knew exactly what Mr McCartney had meant to say because he had been wondering precisely the same thing about him too. Because who on Earth would write a book like Mr McCartney had managed to if they weren't a homosexual? And no heterosexual person would ever consider showing interest in such a story let alone publishing it if they weren't a very good 'Friend of Dorothy's'.

They both kind of knowingly glanced at each other and didn't speak any more of it.

~•••~

Later that night, George was just a puddle as he walked in his apartment, his hairy forming sopping curls on his forehead. He wiped the rain from his face with his numb fingers and proceed to untie his shoes. Richard appeared out of thin air to throw a towel at his soaking roommate.

He was like that, good ol' Ringo - reliable in times of trouble. He and George had met in university both studying literature, they were roommates then. In fact, there was a history buried beneath their years of friendship for, for a few years there, they had been an item. After a somewhat rocky and unstable relationship, they finally came to the conclusion that they only ever came to date was because they were the only two queers in their uni and so they remained friend with no poor feelings. Now, their relationship consisted of Ringo being the pinnacle of life advice and a bond much more suited to brothers than partners.

After shrugging off his overcoat and blazer and shaking the wet from his hair like a sheepdog, George ruffled Ringo's hair before standing in front of their mammoth bookshelf. It didn't take him long to find a book of his present taste. It never did, for he always knew specifically what book would fit his mood.

Ringo watched with a satisfied and knowing smirk as his roommate took the book and retreated to him room to read it.

He still wore that devilish grin the next morning when he and George were sitting at the bench reading the paper together and eating breakfast in their pyjamas.

Without taking his coffee eyes from the paper, George growled within his throat. "I swear to God and Oscar Wilde himself, if you don't tell me why you're smiling like you know the world's biggest secret, I'll bloody smack you." He threatens harshly but Ringo knew his words were as empty as his breakfast bowl. Wiping milk off of his chin in a big brotherly fashion, he laughed.

"Last night, you picked 'The King's General' to read. Which means you meet a new friend." He says and George chuckles and rolls his eyes. Ringo had made a habit out of guessing George's moods by what book he picked off the shelf. By now, his predictions had become rather accurate. "But! You were reading it in your room rather than in the kitchen like you usually would so my guess is that you found a new crush!" He smirks and George sighs.

"God, you're good."