𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

GEORGE.

- 8 -
George Harrison.

¡¡ Happy Birthday, Georgey !!
you would have been 75 today, ya old man

- in honor of his birthday, here's a cute, long imagine for all of you George Harrison fans!

hope you enjoy !

  *:･ﾟ✧

February, 1966

A, B, E7, and back to A.

These were the only 4 chores that continuously were strung by the gentle, musical hands of George Harrison as he sat on his hotel suite bed, alone and isolated from the other members of the band's most recent tour. His left hand glided along the neck of his Gretsch guitar with the use of an amp, it's strings vibrating with the muted sound of plucking and his added vibrato. A piece of paper laid down on his right side with a pencil partnering up ever so nicely with it's filled, multi-sentenced writing. The words that weren't crossed out or destroyed by grafit clearly read:

I want to tell you
My head is filled with things to say
When you're here
All those words they seem to slip away

Georges's ear carefully listened to each pitch, each tone of the notes as he tried different combinations and experimented with different types of phases. His eye's flicked with please and pleasure, but quickly twitched with disgust and hatred.

In a random, burst of anger and his inpatient manner, he harshly stroked the steel guitar strings, picked up his pencil, gently tossed it across the room, took the paper, and began to crumble it up into a small grey ball of unfinished lyrics. The noice of the whole fiasco could be easily heard into the next living room of the suite where you were happily reading a book and drinking a hot, steamy cup of coffee.

No matter what he did, what he played, he couldn't find that perfect melody.

Hearing all the commotion from the other living room, you lightly placed your book and coffee on the nearby end stand, stood up, and made you way towards his room door with a light knock, "George?" You called. "Is everything alright?"

To your surprise that early summer, George had invited - or wether forced you - to travel with him and the band for the coming year in fear of missing you to much, or being away for so long to the point of you forgetting about him. Of course, you gladly accepted with flushed cheeks and excitement, wrapping your arms around him in acceptance.

Knowing George, while on tour, you knew that he would do all it takes to show you off to the city fangirls, the media and the boys. It also so happened that you knew exactly what made up every emotion in that man, and you knew that anger was rarely one of them.

"Yeah, yeah," You could hear him trail off. "Just frustrated, is all." Hearing George's voice in such a state of disappointment caused a small frown to form across you lips with worry.

"May I come in?" You asked politely in attempts to not anger him any more. "Please?"

George did not reply immediately. Instead, the sound of paper shuffling, his guitar being set down on the bed, and the heavily squeaking on the wooden floor boards towards your direction filled the silenced room. He approached the door quickly to unlock it, swung it open for you, and returned back to his state of frustration without a word; his head hanging low facing the ground, his hands propped against his eyes, and his back slouched miserably downward.

You entered the room cautiously and quietly, and decided to sit beside him opposite of his guitar. Looking around the bedroom, you noticed the small pieces of paper scattered around the furniture and floor, his cold tea beside his nightstand that you had offered to him hours ago untouched, and the lone pencil that sat below the closed window.

Returning your attention back to George, you tried to calm him down, "I'm guessing the song isn't writing itself, huh?" You asked with humor.

He shook his head in his hands in a serious manner, "When has it ever?"

"Well, why don't you take a break to refresh your mind? You seem so stressed and tense."

"I can't, dear," He protested. "I 'ave to finish this song as soon as possible, or else the frustration is gonna kill me." His hands gripped his hair tightly. "It just doesn't seem to be workin'."

You placed a soft hand on his shoulder, "What's not working, George?"

He dropped his hands in his lap as he looked up at you worryingly, "My muse, my inspiration. Hell, I can't even remember what I wanted the damn song to be about!"

Seeing the amount of discomfort and disappointment in his eyes physically pained you. You began to rub his back in soothing, small circles with your hand inching upward towards his long hair. His eyes closed delicately as his breathing became more heavy with each stroke.

You shhed him from talking, saying, "It's alright, George. We both know that you can create wonderful, beautiful music with just two sticks and four strings." You both laughed.

You continued on as it died down, "But, if you're having a hard time writing the song, you need to look around you at what makes you happy, not what makes the band happy. This song is going to be written by you, for you, even if you perform it in front of tens-of-thousands of people." You planted a quick kiss on George's lips and pulled merely
inches away from his face, causing him to open his eyes. "You just have to find the right place to look, and I know that you will make the most heartwarming pieces of all times once you find it."

George let out a whispered "wow" lovingly, surprised and amazed by your way with words. His once frowning lips perked upward into an incredible, genuine smile just for you to see. He reached for your hand on his head, stroked his thumb along the back of you palm, and gently took hold of it.

With both you hands now intertwined, George leaned in towards you lips and began to kiss you, craving more of your loving touch against his. Each kiss showed just how much you meant to him, with passion, love, and appropriation put into every single movement. His hand moved to you cheek and waist, while you hands moved around his neck.

After the last, long kiss, you both parted the kiss sightly breathless. George said in a deep, yet soothing voice, "Thank you, [Y/n], my love." You giggled in reply to him addressing you as "his love."

Suddenly, remembering the small crumble of the unfinished lyrics sitting next to his feet, he quickly turned to pick it up and showed it to you. With your hands still around his neck, you watched as he opened and flatted the page, and read the words silently.

George turned his attention onto you once more, "I think I know who my new muse is now."

You pulled him in closer to you, a smile spreading across both of your lips, "And who would that be, George?"

"The one girl I could never live without, dear," He kissed your cheek, before continuing what you two had started earlier, "Why, that's you, my love. You and only you."

-