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"It is good for you?"

George nodded. "Mmmm"

"It is good."

George glanced up again, and nodded again, and returned his attention again to his plate which had until five minutes ago held fried egg, sausages, bacon and toast. Now it only contained half a sausage and one rasher of bacon. He tore a piece of bread off the slice on his side plate and wiped up the remains of the egg, pushing all the bread into his mouth at one time. He chewed, and tried to smile at the same time, but the smile only hit his eyes, which crinkled appreciatively. "Hmmm," he managed.

smiled happily, and took a sip of his black coffee. He hadn't wanted food, but he'd known his companion would have been desperate for it and he'd been right. The full breakfast had been consumed as though inhaled. Jurgen watched as George reached for the big chunky mug of tea and gulped it down with the last of his meal.

"Great. Fab. Thank you!" The mug of tea was deposited on the table top with a satisfied thud. "I needed that," continued George, unnecessarily. He looked up at his benefactor across the grimy table.

"We take photos?"

George looked steadily at Jurgen, and the German felt the gaze, felt inspected. He felt unsure; and wondered how that could be. He had bought breakfast for this gauche, naïve teenager, this grubby and rough-mannered boy from across the sea, this working class lout. He had chosen this one, out of that group of five equally grubby rough-mannered boys from across the sea. Off the stage, he had no interest in the others, even though on stage they were utterly mesmerising and compelling. But offstage? John was, frankly, too frightening. Paul was...too charming? Stu was Astrid's. Pete was as detached and boring as it was possible to be.

And there was George.

Jurgen picked up his coffee cup for another sip, but the cup was empty. And he'd known that, but he'd tried to take the sip as a deflection against the dark gaze from across the table. How could that be?

George had no such distractions, and seemed to need none. He'd finished his tea and his food, and he was simply sitting, relaxed, elbows on the table. His just lit cigarette nestled between two long graceful and grubby fingers, the smoke coiling up into the fuggy air. Even in the harsh fluorescent light of the sailors' café, his startling bone structure and finely formed mouth and full lips cried out, to Jurgen, for portraits, for close shots; for close attention.

Jurgen looked into the large dark eyes, and saw that they were not the eyes of a rough mannered lout. But then, he must have known that. When he'd asked George to meet him this morning. To take pictures.

Howls of derisory laughs had greeted George when he'd told them what Jurgen had asked.

"Fucking 'ell, Georgie, I hope you get well paid. You can get a fortune for that sort of job."

"Don't turn your back on him."

"If you don't make it with the guitar Georgie, you've got a great little earner with him. Play your cards right..."

"Tomorrow? I'm free tomorrow..."

Paul had seemed so surprised that it was George and not he who'd been invited. Paul never expected his little brother George to be the focus of anyone's attention. "Nah, you're alright. He said me."

"Seriously George..."

George sat calmly across the table from his new German friend. He enjoyed the replete feeling following his first big meal in a long time, and he reflected on the expression in the German's eyes. He had seen that expression before, from a man. He wondered what it was about him that queers seemed to like. God knows. But he knew somehow that this wasn't going to turn nasty. The guy just fancied him; and it would be great to get some good photos.

He smiled. "Where would you like to go?"

Jurgen beamed as he hoisted himself to his feet and gathered up his precious camera. "I have found the exact right place," he said in his odd English. "It is by the sea. You come?"

George chuckled as he too stood up and gestured gallantly towards the door. "Is it far?"

"I have bike."

"You have bike. That's good then!" The two young men walked together out of the noisy clattery café and into the clearer air of the street, and Jurgen led the way towards his bike.