Nineteen Sixty-Four // Starrison

Chapter 16

 The next days blurred in George's mind into one big stain. Propaganda materials, insipid meals, meaningless gossip shared with his co-workers. Day passed after day and he kept coming back to what happened in John's attic — to the mysterious stranger, conversation with Richard, his kiss.

He couldn't focus on anything, his thoughts were out of control. At some point voice from telescreen in work screamed at him to focus on his job, making George nearly die on a heart attack. "Work for better tomorrow. Wok for the Party." Damn. They know. He's in the crosshairs, now for sure. Harrison, calm down. He was sitting behind the desk, hunched over, not even daring to look at the clock. Some military marches could be heard from behind. Luckily, Two Minutes Hate was over.

Finally! A signal they could go back home. George sighed with relief, fighting the burning urge to turn back and run out, and segregated his papers with calm stoicism. Then he raised his head.

Big Brother was watching him from the placard, his cruel eyes looking through him and fingering his guilt.

A wave of people poured out of the Ministry of Truth's building and George followed them, planning quietly, what to do next.

Today he finally had a piece of free time, peace from responsibilities and acting like an obedient Party's lover — he planned to visit John yesterday. But in time George realized he hadn't put his appearance in the Community Centre for too long; frequency was checked very strictly, and he didn't want to get himself into a trouble.

That's where he saw John. They ignored each other for the entire meeting, but on the corridor George asked wordlessly: tomorrow? The older one nodded in an agreement. His friend raised hand, touching his fingers, as if he wore rings there. Ringo? Will he come? Nod, again.

So Ringo will appear. Harrison's heart jumped in happiness, eager to see blue-eyed man.

Walking down the street, he saw (and heard) a spontaneous demonstration that people organized here and there, balancing on the edge of fear, complete terror and orthodox, dumb love. The government intricately covered up this edge, making people gullible creatures with too much fear to notice how dying was the world they were living in. Wilting as a flower in long, autumn's nights. And only a few people sneaked out of this Terror land, pushed into land of constant paranoia when love to the Party disappeared. George was one of them.

"BIG BROTHER IS GREAT! BIG BROTHER IS INFALLIBLE!"

No, he isn't, Harrison thought.

"BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING!"

He's watching, but he's not seeing.

"MAY HE LIVE FOREVER!"

Down with him.

* * *

George reached his small flat. He shaved carefully, wasting last, precious razor and combed his hair. Since he met Richard, he started to actually care about his look, like never before.

Harrison left his home, hearing helicopters circling around the city.

He lit a cigarette, thinking about the boy that suddenly came into their lives, complicating everything. Who was he? What was that thing about him, that made John, George and Richard want to help him? Will he even trust them?

The man came into John's house, thinking that he's visiting him way too often, probably slowly raising some suspicions above. Well. Starkey greeted him; George looked in his big blue eyes, with many unspoken words filling the air. Now they had chance to fix their relationship and start again. Now, leave the fear, come closer. Now, kiss him tenderly, like before. Like before.

Harrison only nodded and walked upstairs. Scrap, scrap, scraped the old stairs. Feel nothing. Ringo hid his disappointment under the mask of happiness, like he had in habit. "I hope you didn't rape him up there, did you, John?"

"No," Lennon laughed. "Or maybe... with his beautiful face..."

It was hard to tell if he was really joking.

Small specks of dust rose into the air and trickle of daylight came into the attic. The stranger was sitting on the floor, John's guitar in his delicate hands. Looking thoughtfully at the card full of chords. Some other papers were lying all around him in a comfortable mess. At the intruders' sight he jumped slightly and put the guitar back, scared.

"Wow, wow, wow. What do we have here?" Lennon spoke.

The boy put all the cards aside, pretending that nothing has happened — there was something cute in it.

"Your mommy never told ya to not touch stuff that doesn't belong to you?"

Some spark of... pain? appeared in the stranger's eyes at John's words. "My mother is dead," he said bluntly. The very first words he said without a trace of cockiness in his voice.

"I'm sorry..." Ringo answered, coming closer.

The man with glasses sighed. "Y'know, mine too."

Harrison remained silent.

"I've had a guitar in my home... it's been small, battered by the time and stolen. But I loved playing on it, music was very fun. But then my father has sold it..." The intruder whispered. "We haven't had food, our plates have been empty." There was a compassion in the air, which irritated him. "But you, Party's members, don't know anything about it! Hunger and poverty!"

"We actually know pretty much," George murmured.

"Our world isn't a fairy tale. Party crashes every one of us like worms," Ringo added. "Except of those motherfuckers from Inner Party. They have everything, the entire world in their service."

John sat beside the younger boy. They looked at each other, somehow understandingly. "Can you read the chords?"

"No."

"And this?" Lennon pointed at the small piece of paper.

"No, I can't read. I only recognize two letters — P and M, for..." he suddenly became silent, knowing that he said too much.

"For what?" Ringo asked.

"My name," the stranger shrugged finally, realizing that it doesn't matter if they'd know his name anymore. "James Paul McCartney, but... I prefer Paul."

"Paul," John tasted this name on his tongue and reached for the guitar, strumming it.

They started talking. Some unsure bond was born in between them on this day. Kept on pillars of mutual riot and realization that they were all small pieces sentenced to death in the ocean of cruel world. But in this moment they knew. They knew, that nothing was normal, the Party wasn't normal, their country wasn't normal. They were sure it wasn't how this world was supposed to be. That the only real things were love, friendship, attachment.

Ringo and George tried to join the conversation, but it was more than obvious that John and Paul were completely self-absorbed. By the love to music, by the loss they both experienced. Two lovers knew that they'd be pushed aside in this. And accepted this fact.

"John, George, Ringo," said McCartney suddenly. Just now George realized how beautiful and clear voice this boy had. "I've got a question. Why exactly do you help me?"

Good question. Very good question.

"Because we're people," John Lennon answered simply. "Last people on Earth."  

//A/N: Okay... sorry for nearly one month of waiting. But here it is! 
...comments make my day, people cx//