A/N: Oh my goodness gracious, I haven't updated in FOREVER. I updated chapter 1 a few days ago, but that doesn't really count. There's honestly no excuse for such a long hiatus, but I'm back with updates! I'll try to be frequent in updating, if not necessarily consistent in my timing. Really hope you like this chapter - it picks up where 28 left off, so you might want to reread a bit if you haven't in a while so you know what's going on :-) So yeah... love it, hate it, tell me! I survive on coffee, music, and reviews, after all.

Peace and love,

Claire

October 14, 1948

"Why are you looking at me like that?" asked George suddenly, sounding mildly irritated. The statement broke the tense silence that had filled the space between him and John, ever since Paul left them in his room to take his nightly bath – which always promised to be a long ordeal. Ever since, George and John had been sitting as far apart as possible from one another while still staying perched on the same edge of the same bed. And the entire time, neither had spoken a single word to each other. George himself was quite prepared to ignore John's presence – a desire born purely out of embarrassment for almost crying in front of the older boy, and not actual anger. However, John's insistence at staring a hole into the side of George's head was making the task more difficult than anticipated.

"I'm not looking at you," rebuffed John quickly, making a point to redirect his gaze to Paul's dresser drawer. It was an obvious lie. He had been staring at George, trying to work out a way to apologize properly while still saving face. So far, nothing viable had come to mind.

"Were so," George countered, scooting down towards the foot of the bed to be closer to his friend. "Like I'd grown three heads or summat. What's the matter, Johnny?"

John sighed. He would rather George didn't act so nice and diplomatic all the time. To tell the truth, what he wanted the most was for George to stand up, get angry, and shove him down onto the floor. If that were the case, the score would have been evened – revenge, an eye for an eye as the old saying goes. It would certainly be an easier solution than this business with talking and feelings. John spoke the language of shoving better than the language of apologizing, anyways.

"Nothing's the matter!" John said defensively, opting for petulancy instead of honesty. The remark came forth more forcefully than he intended; he winced as George flinched away from the outburst and slid back towards his earlier spot, a safe distance away from John.

Across the hallway, the swishing sounds of Paul brushing his teeth could be heard. Through a mouthful of toothbrush and baking-soda toothpaste he was singing, or at least trying to sing, the same ditty that had been the root cause of the night's most pressing probem.

"Ah dirty Maggie May, they've gone and taken her away, and she won't be walking Lyme Street anymore! Well the… the policeman found her… la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, that dirty, dirty, dirty Maggie May!"

John almost smiled at the sounds of the song from the across the hall. Almost. There were more important things to attend to than Paul's singing.

"Georgie…" he started, nervously. The boy in question looked up at John from under his thick eyebrows and kicked his feet back and forth over the edge of the bed.

"Yes, John?" George's voice was as unreadable as ever.

"I'm sorry 'bout earlier, Geo. Didn't mean to shove you or nothing, honest," John mumbled, loud enough to be audible but quietly enough that he didn't feel too embarrassed. He traced abstract shapes onto the floorboards with the toe of his right foot and felt traitorous heat rising to his cheeks. Next to him, George smiled cheekily.

"What was that, Johnny?" George said in his most innocent, cherubic voice. "I didn't quite hear you, what did you say again?"

"You heard me!" came the indignant protest. John knew exactly what sort of game George was looking to play. He practically invented that game.

"Heard what?" George asked, clasping his hands together and putting them under his chin, smiling. John scowled slightly.

"George…" he whined, squirming uncomfortably and making the mattress springs creak with every jolt.

"The chance to hear John Lennon say sorry only comes once in a lifetime, mate. Just once more."

"Sorry," John scowled. George was just being cruel at this point.

"Louder, if you may?"

"I said I'm bloody sorry!"

George nodded again, looking pleased with himself. "Right then."

John blew out a heavy breath and flopped back dramatically onto the bed, staring at the white ceiling above and listening to the quiet clamor of the McCartney household readying itself for bed.

Slowly and subtly, a gentle, light presence made itself known by John's shoulder. He didn't have to look to know who it was. For a few long, contemplative seconds, the pair simply laid next to one another on the bed, staring at nothing and saying even less. George had the ability, peculiar especially for someone his age, to stay absolutely silent for inordinate amounts of time. It tended to put the more hyperactive John on edge sometimes, the absolute silence. Times like this were when he couldn't help but wonder what was happening in George's head and why John wasn't allowed to be privy to it.

"It's alright, you know," said George after a short while, his voice soft and placating. John propped himself on one elbow to train his younger friends with the most incredulous look he could muster, eyes balking out and mouth opened in disbelief.

"What do you mean, it's alright?" he almost screeched, gesturing with the hand he wasn't using to support himself. "I could've hurt you!"

George pressed a finger to John's lips, in a firm bid for quietness, and glanced around as if to look for spies.

"Mrs. McCartney'll hear you and get mad," warned George.

"Let her!" John snapped, tearing his face away and sliding back to lean against the wall. "I shoved you, I deserve to get in trouble!"

"No, you don't. You got upset and made a mistake. Your feelings got too strong and you didn't have time to think before you did something you wouldn't do normally. It happens to everyone, really," George assured, remembering back to his incident with Oliver Danes in the courtyard nearly a week ago. He wondered if Paul ever told John about that particular incident.

"Besides," George added with a shrug. "I've certainly had worse."

"You don't deserve it though, Geo," John muttered, squirming around wondering if Paul would ever actually leave the bathroom so he could abandon the conversation before it got any more uncomfortable.

"No one deserves it," said George. "And neither do you."

John gave George a look, but any forthcoming commentary was quickly silenced as George continued speaking.

"And don't think you'll say otherwise, Johnny. I know what you're thinking. You think I should hit you back and that sort of thing, but I shouldn't because being mean doesn't solve being mean."

John just blinked at George. He hadn't signed up for a lesson in philosophy.

George sighed, and unconsciously began rubbing the back of his head where it had connected with the floor earlier, wincing slightly. It only made John feel worse about himself. After a second or two, he clasped both hands in his lap and looked intently at John as he continued with his speech.

"You've had some rough sort of rubbish happen to you, John, and I'm real sorry for that. It's no good at all, and I wish we all could just be happy all the time, but we can't. Because you had to live with that rubbish Bobby fellow and get knocked out in the street, and Ritchie was so ill he nearly died, and me family doesn't have the money for socks or heating oil or anything, and Paul's getting grey hairs worrying about everyone else's problems. Rubbish happens. I'm real sorry for all of it. And I'm real sorry for your rubbish too, and if you hit me sometimes because it's too much rubbish to handle, it's alright. It's just… rubbish, it's rubbish-rubbish-rubbish-rubbish." George sighed again, voice shaking slightly. He blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes, remembering his earlier vow to always display strength in front of the others, and wrapped his arms around his middle. It really is too much rubbish, he thought miserably, staring at one of the tiny stars sewn into Paul's bed quilt. To John, it looked like George was the one going grey with all the stress and despair of present circumstance.

But George's moment of profundity served its purpose well, and John felt lighter than he had in ages. He frowned at his friend's bent form and decided to do what he did best – joke away the problem at hand.

"Well," drawled John, cocking his head to the left and smiling. "Leastaways I've never actually been tossed into the rubbish."

George pushed John's shoulder lightly, without looking up from the quilt flower. "Git," he muttered, trying to sound annoyed despite the smirk that threatened to spread across his face.

"Ello, what's this I hear about me having grey hairs?" said Paul from the doorway. Neither John nor George had noticed his arrival and didn't know how long he had been standing there, silently eavesdropping. Both heads snapped upwards at the sound of Paul's voice to stare at him in surprise. Paul, meanwhile, stood nonchalantly rubbing his towel over his head yet somewhat concerned at the prospect of premature graying.

The opportunity was too perfect to resist. With nothing more than a quick shared glance, John and George were exactly on one another's pages. In one swift motion, the two boys had shot off the bed, lifted Paul clear up off the floor, and had him tossed onto the bed. Before Paul even had a chance to process the change of scenery, George and John had him blocked in and were tickling him mercilessly.

"Ah! Stop it, that, I –" Paul was unable to finish his sentence, overcome with a fit of hysterical giggling. This did nothing to abate John and George's attack – in fact, it spurred them on even more, and soon they were all making such a racket that Mrs. Mary McCartney took notice and found herself standing in the doorway, bemusedly surveying the spectacle before her.

"Ahem, boys?" she called after a couple of minutes, leaning casually against the doorframe. The three offenders stopped very suddenly, freezing in their tracks for a split second before quickly launching themselves under the covers and feigning sleep.

Mary chuckled softly. "That's what I thought," she said, going in to tuck in the covers around the three boys. It was a tight fit, but they all managed to somehow squeeze into the small bed together, with Paul pressed against the wall, George with one arm hanging off the outer edge, and John squished close between his two friends.

One by one, Mary kissed three foreheads. She kissed Paul softly as she had done every night for almost eight years, then John because he too was now her son just as Paul was, and – after slight consideration – George, because he was a nice boy and she didn't want him to be left out. Smiling to herself, she bid a quiet goodnight wish and started to slip out the door.

"Hey, mum?" said Paul, just as Mary was about to switch off the light. She turned around to see her son, lying on his side and looking at her with his droopy hazel eyes.

"Yes, Paul?" she asked. "Do you boys need some water?"

"No, that's alright," assured Paul, adjusting slightly and sticking an arm under his head to supplement his pillow. "Just wanted to say I love you and all. Oh and also, I was wondering, do you know what a whore is?"