Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Woodstock’s landscape is exactly how George expected it to be on a crisp November day. The leaves on the trees are orange and yellow with hints of green, the vibrant autumn foliage gives an impression of warmth when the sun is barely out and the locals wear layers upon layers of clothes while rolling their harvest in a wheelbarrow down to the farmer’s market. Pumpkins, apples, pears, squash and sweet potatoes are piled in stands around town. George sees a squirrel gather nuts and climb a tree as he drives by and remembers why he loves autumn so much. The town is picturesque as if it belongs in a story book, the townies seem amicable and welcoming, and George feels immediately at home. George had been looking forward to this visit since Bob invited him during summer. Had it not been for his crowded schedule, he would’ve dropped by the moment he read it on his handwriting, however, looking around, George is glad he came today. 

Bob’s farm is secluded even in a small town. It sits where the businesses with its stands and the small houses are out of sight. Rows of trees stretch and surround the main house on a meadow. The tree’s shedded brown leaves are crunchy under George’s boot when he steps down the car, the sound is welcoming and pleasant but nobody seems to acknowledge their arrival. The house looks quiet and almost empty from the outside and George starts to wonder if they’re on the wrong address.

‘‘Did you tell them we were coming?’’ Pattie asks on the other side of the car, clutching her coat.

‘‘Yes, I sent a letter last week with our itinerary.’’

George and Pattie walk to the front door and he rings on the bell. They wait and wait, George’s nervousness only rises up. Pattie squeezes his hand and then the door is opened, and an agitated, slightly disheveled Sara Dylan, with a baby on her hip, opens the door.

‘‘Oh my!’’ She says, enthusiasm reaching her tired eyes. ‘‘Guys, I’m sorry to keep you waiting! Come here!’’  Sara embraces both George and Pattie with a kiss on each of their cheeks. ‘‘How are you? Come inside, let me take your coats.’’ 

The home is pleasantly warm, with a smell of coffee and cinnamon lingering in the air. There’s wooden toys and cars scattered around as Sara walks them across the house. George’s eyes dart to a painting above the fireplace and the signature at the bottom. George wonders where he is right now.

‘‘I’m sorry for the mess, the kids just woke up and they’re having breakfast.’’ Sara says, rushing over to the kitchen. 

‘‘Hello kids!’’ Pattie says when she sees the table with two kids, eating pancakes. Blue eyes and curly hair dart towards him, and it’s like George is seeing an army of little Bobs. George waves, slightly uncomfortable. He didn’t mean to interrupt.

A baby sits on a high-chair, kicking their little legs as a woman feeds them. ‘‘This is Lupe, she’s our housekeeper.’’ Sara says and Lupe looks up with a smile. ‘‘And that is little Anna, she’s one year old.’’ Sara turns to the kid on the table, her hand on a girl’s head. ‘‘This is Maria, she’s seven and my big boy, Jesse, he’s two. And… this little bundle of joy is Sammy, he’s only four months’’ She kisses the baby on her hip.

‘‘Oh, wow…’’ Pattie murmurs. George can’t find what to say. ‘‘They’re all so beautiful.’’

Sara smiles widely, ‘‘Would you like some breakfast?’’ 

‘‘No, thank you, we already ate.’’

‘‘Oh, but I can offer you some tea, I know you Brits love it, don't you?’’ Sara says and starts rummaging through the drawers. ‘‘Bobby said you would. Please sit down.’’

Pattie and George sit together across Maria and Jesse, who look at them with curiosity. 

‘‘I like your hair.’’ Maria says to Pattie, mouth full of pancakes. 

‘‘Hey, don’t speak with your mouth full.’’ Sara tells her while putting the kettle on the stove.

‘‘Why, thank you! I really like your dress!’’ Pattie says to her with a wink.

Sara eventually sits down with them and starts breastfeeding Sammy. ‘‘I’m sorry you must be wondering where Bobby is. You just missed him, he went riding.’’  George just nods, trying to hide the disappointment in his face. ‘‘He should be back in like half an hour.’’

‘‘How is he doin’?’’  George asks, this being the first time he speaks since he stepped into the Dylans’ kitchen.

‘‘Oh he’s okay— Been painting a lot, and stuff.’’

George has heard. In fact, he’s heard many things from friends of friends, saying Bob faked the motorcycle accident that led to his musical hiatus and step-back from the public, that he’s quitting music for good and the one that Sara seems to be confirming, he’s been doing nothing but painting portraits.

The kettle starts boiling and Lupe stands up to get it. She pours George and Pattie a cup each. ‘‘Two sugars for George and no sugar for Pattie, right?’’ Sara asks. ‘‘Bobby said that’s how you drank it.’’

George looks down and smiles. Lupe sets the cups in front of them. ‘‘Thank you.’’ They tell her.

Jesse stands up from the chair, leaving half of his pancakes. ‘‘Are you done, my love?’’ Sara asks him. ‘‘Maria would you take him to wash his hands, please darling?’’ 

When Maria is done, they disappear into the next room and Sara starts eating Jesse’s leftovers. George feels sympathy for her, having a house full of kids mustn’t be easy. Sammy begins coughing on her nipple and she pats his back gently, resting his body on her shoulder. Sara looks tired, overwhelmed and George feels guilty for inconveniencing her. 

‘‘We can return later, if you’d like.’’ Pattie says and George appreciates her for noticing his discomfort.

‘‘Oh no! Please, don’t worry. You’re my guests. The worst is over, they’re fed now.’’ She laughs and George is endeared by her kindness. 

George drinks his tea in silence and stares at the kitchen window. Outside, the meadow spreads openly and George wonders how far Bob has gotten on horse. The anticipation gnaws at his insides, it’s been forever since he’s seen him in person just to be infiltrated in his kitchen with his family, might seem invasive to say the least. 

A baby starts crying, it’s Anna from her high-chair. Lupe picks her up and cleans her dirty face. George sighs.

‘‘Bath time, Lupe, please.’’ Sara says and Lupe carries Anna to the bathroom. ‘‘She’s an angel, Lupe. Without her, I’d be going crazy. Bobby is very much involved but sometimes it’s too much for the two of us.’’ She says to Pattie now, since George has disconnected from the conversation entirely. George searches for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and realizes he’s left them inside his coat. ‘‘It’s really rare that he's not here, I think he was nervous George was coming.’’ 

Sara and Pattie’s cheeky giggling startles George, more than Sara’s words themselves, it’s like they’re seeing something he’s not, it’s a joke he’s not getting. Either way, he flashes an embarrassed smile and shrugs, his cheeks color red and he tries not to think about Bob missing him, he doesn’t know what said idea might unravel. 

‘‘Don’t worry, George was excited to come too.’’ Pattie suddenly says and George chokes on his tea. Sara beams at him with a twinkle in her eye, as if she knows something about him that he doesn’t. It scares George. 

The kitchen door bursts open and there he is, the man of the house. George ignores the way his heart leaps and twirls. Bob Dylan himself removes his cowboy hat and ruffles the short curls in his hair, and his smile makes an appearance when he sees George sitting in his kitchen.

‘‘Look who it is! The Harrisons!’’

George stands up and Bob embraces him tightly. He wraps his arms around his neck with enthusiasm. He looks different, George inspects him when he reaches for Pattie. His hair is cut short, his body appears fuller, stronger— there’s a serenity to his expression, a fullness to his cheeks. He looks much more sturdy than George remembers. 

‘‘They’re staying with us for a few days!’’ Sara says and it seems to catch Bob without a warning. 

He blinks. ‘‘Are they?’’

George stammers, so Bob didn’t know they were staying? His eyes dart to Sara and George wonders what she is scheming. ‘‘Well, yeah. Uh— Sara offered on the phone, didn’t she tell you?’’ 

‘‘Oh, yeah… I forgot, my bad, man.’’ Bob says. 

‘‘Lupe set the guest room for you guys, you can settle in whenever you’re ready.’’ Sara states, standing up while burping Sammy. Her stance is one of a person who runs the whole house. ‘‘I’m going to the market with Lupe and the kids, would you like to come with me Pattie? Give these two some alone time to catch up.’’

‘‘That’d be great, yeah!’’ 

Pattie and Sara disappear together into the house to get the kids ready and George is left with Bob. He shoves his hands inside his pocket.

‘‘So, how are you?’’ George asks. 

Bob serves himself a glass of milk. ‘’Alright, man, you know, living the life.’’ He says. 

‘‘Judging by what the people say, I expected a wheelchair.’’ 

Bob laughs, the sound of his laughter filling George with joy. ‘‘Nah, I’m alright. My neck and back sometimes hurt but that’s what drugs are for, right?’’ 

George smiles at his wit. ‘‘You got a lovely home here.’’ 

‘‘Thank you! Did Sara show you around? I gotta take you outside, so you see the animals for yourself.’’

George had heard all about Bob’s farm in the letters. For the past few years, their meetings were scarce but their communication rarely ceased, often exchanging letters where they talked about music, guitars, family and home. George didn’t expect Bob to be so settled in his life as a father, it’s not how he saw Bob Dylan’s life turning out to be.

‘‘I’d love to.’’ George says and they lock eyes for a moment. Bob might look different, but the state of his eyes remain, so full of life and color. It entrances George for a moment. 

A child’s screeching gets their attention, and little Jesse comes in running, wearing nothing but a diaper. 

‘‘Jesse! We have to get ready!’’ Sara exclaims, walking after him.  Jesse holds on to Bob’s legs and he picks him up. Sara comes in, holding his clothes. ‘‘Bob, he doesn’t wanna get dressed, tell him something!’’

‘‘Hey kiddo, listen to your mother.’’ Bob says with a fake stern voice.

‘‘No!’’ Jesse exclaims, burying his little face in Bob’s neck.

Jesse whispers something in Bob’s ear. ‘‘He doesn’t wanna go.’’ He continues to whisper. ‘‘He wants to stay with daddy…’’ Bob glances at George. ‘‘and George.’’ 

Sara sighs and hands Bob his clothes. ‘‘Okay, fine. But put on some clothes.’’

Bob somehow convinces Jesse to dress up and he decides to show George around. Bob’s farm is much bigger than George expected, with fields and hills stretching in the distance. Bob started sowing his own produce just in time for harvest season. George could listen to him talk extensively about fruits and vegetables if it wasn’t for that one topic lingering in the back of his head that he thinks Bob might be avoiding. But Bob distracts him in the barn, where he houses chickens and hens, and George is awed at the horses in his stable. 

‘‘Do you ride?’’ Bob asks him. He’s carrying Jesse on his shoulders. 

‘‘Uh— Sometimes…’’ George lies. He can’t remember the last time he rode a horse.

‘‘I could teach you… Take you up the hill, it’s really nice there.’’

‘‘ Poline, poline !’’ Jesse exclaims.

‘‘Okay, we’re going…’’ 

‘‘What’s that?’’ George asks Bob.

‘‘Trampoline. I set it up this summer and Maria and him have been obsessed with it.’’

It’s not like George didn’t expect Bob to be a good father, it’s the fact that he didn’t expect to see him quite involved. He never seemed to be the one to like children, but George looks at the way he holds Jesse’s hand while sitting at the edge of the trampoline as he tries to jump as tall as his little legs allow him to.

George needs a smoke badly. He keeps forgetting his cigarettes inside, however, Bob takes the hint and takes out one from his pocket. ‘‘Ta, mate.’’ Bob opens the flame for George and he leans over it. His eyes catch a glimpse of Bob’s hand, at the scars on his flesh, similar to the ones George has from guitar strings snapping, and his nails cut short, which is unlike him. This is only a sign that he has not been playing at all. 

“So… How's the other three?” Bob suddenly asks. “Haven't heard from Beatle John in a while.”

“He's been all over the place. Dumped Cyn, got a new bird, her name's Yoko. Some Japanese broad. Uh… He's doing smack now… The others are alright.”

“Smack?” 

“Heroin.”

Bob's expression turns somber. “ Oh …” 

George shrugs and takes a big drag out of his cigarette. He'd rather not talk about the issues back at home. “Can't really get through him, y'know…” 

“I've done that… I think…” Bob squints, trying to recollect. “Can't remember now, I used to do so much shit back then, frankly.” Bob laughs but George doesn't join him. 

“ Used to ?”

“I mean yeah, you can't really maintain a home and raise four kids high off your mind. I still do grass, though. Only when the kids are asleep.” 

This is a Dylan George thought he would never see: completely straight. 

“Did ye quit other stuff too?” George blurts out.

“What do you mean, George?” Bob questions but George has a feeling he already knows what he implies.

“Music. Did you quit music too?”

Bob sighs and lets go of Jesse's hand. He seems to jump just fine on his own. Bob pulls out a cigarette for himself. “That seems to be the million dollar question.”

“Well, are ye?” 

“Who knows, man? Honestly, between that fuckin' accident and the babies, I can't really write anything. Music is not my priority.” 

George's stomach drops. Bob Dylan, out of all people, can not quit music. 

“You're having me on…”

“Listen, man… is that why you came here?” Bob's words catch him off guard. George stares at him, silent. “To find out if I quit or not? What does it matter? Why does it matter?”

“Hang on… You asked me to come…” Bob purses his lips and smokes from his cigarette. His gaze turns to Jesse jumping on the trampoline. George continues to stare at his profile. “And you can't be quitting music.”

“Try to play guitar with a broken neck…” 

“You look just fine to me!” George retorts and immediately bites his tongue.

Bob snickers bitterly. “Yeah, they all assume that. Didn't expect it from you, though.” 

George sighs. He thinks he should shut up, to avoid fucking it up even further, however, he needs to say this, “You can't be quitting music, do you know who you are?”

“I'm a father, okay George? I have a family. Sara needs me, the kids need me. If you're looking for the Bob Dylan you met four years ago, he died in that crash.” Bob says, voice as sharp as glass.

George gazes at him through the smoke and he wishes Bob would look up, George bets he doesn't have the audacity to say it while looking him in the eye. Chill air blows and Bob gets a hold of Jesse whose clothes are not proper for the weather.

When they finally meet eyes, George can't recognize the sight of him, his often bright blue eyes are dull, not even the orange hues of the land make them stand out. There's a sadness behind them, George is sure, but he doesn't know how to reach it, how to get through it. As much as George hates to admit it, Bob’s right, the Bob Dylan he’s looking for is not here, but who the hell was writing all of those letters? Staring at this new Bobby with short hair and short nails… George fears Bob might have chopped his wings too.

❧

Bob has been painting, ‘‘It’s all he does now.’’ Sara had said during lunch. ‘‘Maybe you could show them your work, love… I mean, I bet you guys have seen it, it’s all over the house but I think his best work is hidden in the art room.’’

Sara was right, Bob’s best pieces of work are tucked in the corner of his painting room. Sara points at her favorite, it’s a recreation of their wedding day. 

‘‘That’s beautiful!’’ Pattie exclaims with admiration. ‘‘Why would you have this hidden here?’’

‘‘It’s slightly crooked.’’ Bob says but George doesn’t see it.

There’s paintings of unknown faces, abstract concepts, random imaginary scenes, cars and motorcycles, and landscapes but George’s favorites are the ones of his children and Sara. They’re detailed, carefully-crafted, with love and care spilled in every brush stroke. 

‘‘This is my favorite one so far.’’ Bob says, holding up the frame.

‘‘Oh, horrible.’’ Sara groans and George understands why.

It’s a recreation of his motorcycle accident, the bike totaled against a tree and Bob’s body laying meters away from the scene, partially hidden by grass, his head bloody and his arm and leg angled in odd ways. It’s an interesting piece and George can’t take his eyes from it. The women are horrified, Pattie purses her lips and Sara shakes her head but George understands it, it’s a representation of pain and tragedy, key elements of being alive. Bob and George smile together, locking eyes and it’s the first time he feels the connection between them, the mutual sympathy for being constantly misunderstood by others. And for a brief second, George sees the Bob that he knows, full of mischief and mystery. 

‘‘It’s good.’’ George says to him and Bob nods, seemingly proud.

They’re all startled by a child’s scream and then footsteps running towards the art room. Maria emerges, face wet with tears.

‘‘A spider, a spider!’’ She screams and holds on to Sara’s legs.

‘‘Honey, what’s wrong?’’ 

‘‘There’s a huge spider in my room and Jesse is there, you gotta kill it, it might bite him!’’ 

Sara laughs and looks at Bob, he exhales and picks up Maria from the ground, ‘‘Show me where it is.’’

What George doesn’t expect next is for Sara to turn to him when Bob and Maria leave the room. ‘‘You know… As much as I hate that painting I think it says a lot about his mental state right now…’’ 

‘‘The crash must have affected him badly.’’ Pattie adds.

‘‘It did…’’ Sara crosses her arms and shakes her head, her thin eyebrows frowned. ‘‘He’s not writing, like at all. I haven’t seen him pick up a guitar in months. I’m worried.’’ 

The way Sara looks at George leads him to think she wants him to do something, but can George do anything at all? Bob seems pretty resigned to the idea and certainly doesn’t want George’s input.

‘‘He said he wasn’t inspired to write…’’ George tells her.

‘‘You gotta help him, George.’’ And there it is. 

‘‘He doesn’t want my help.’’ George shakes his head and takes out a cigarette.

‘‘If there’s anyone who can inspire him it’s you. He cares about you, he says you’re special.’’ George looks away, his heart racing. He wants to believe Sara, he does, however he finds it hard to conceive Bob calling him special. ‘‘And I know you care about him too…’’

‘‘He does.’’ Pattie says and George feels on the spot. He’s never had his feelings for Bob examined before. ‘‘You know, when we went to India earlier this year, he took lots of Indian records but the only western record he brought with him was Blonde on Blonde. ’’

George glares at Pattie airing his dirty laundry. Sara smiles at him and rubs his shoulder. ‘‘You’re a good friend to Bobby, he needs someone like you. He won’t say it, but he needs you.’’

George takes a good drag out of his cigarette and stares down at the perfectly polished wooden floor. An unfinished canvas lays on the far corner of the room, discarded like waste and it catches George’s eyes. The pale complexion, the rowdy brown curls and striking blue irises, it’s Bob’s self-portrait, except a brush stroke crosses where his expression would be, an angry and black stroke that overtakes his face. The canvas rests unfinished and scrapped. An ominous analogy creeps up in his mind.

After dinner and when the kids are asleep, Bob offers George and Pattie some weed. George could never say no to that. The four of them sit together on the back porch under the stars, passing a joint back and forth. George’s guitar sits on his lap, he can’t pass much time without it. He senses Bob shift slightly when he starts strumming it and George hopes the music lures him in like a dog to food. But Bob remains unfazed, focused on the smoke coming out of his mouth, eyes heavy-lidded. He acts like he doesn’t care, but George knows, deep down, he does. There wouldn’t be modern music without Bob, and you have to at least care in some way about music in order to change the trajectory of it.

‘‘Sing something, Bobby!’’ Sara says but Bob scoffs. George starts mumbling/singing. 

Pattie holds on to his arm, with her head on his shoulder. Sara listens with a small smile, enticed by the music and Bob is splayed out on the chair in front of him, blowing rings of smoke and staring at the sky. George begins to feel pathetic and he cuts the song short. Sara claps with a wide grin but George is gazing at Bob, his body almost unresponsive to the music. 

‘‘Are you done?’’ Bob suddenly asks and George blinks, taken back.

And when Bob redirects his eyes to the front, George is met with a dark gaze, like a brush stroke painted across his eyes. George wants to say something, perhaps a snarky but funny remark to lighten the mood but he is frozen. Bob gives Sara the joint back and returns to the house. Cold air blows through and George braces his guitar.

Chapter Text

Bob wakes up from a deep sleep and it’s one of those days where every piece of muscle and joint aches, where even the slight movement would send signals to his brain telling him it’s best to stay in bed. But he can’t, there’s a life outside this bed, pass the bedroom door where his children run free and his wife takes care of the house. 

But it’s one of those days where Bob wishes he was dead. 

He hears padding, tiny feet running down the hall and approach his bedroom. Jesse comes in bursting through the door and jumps on his lap. Bob groans.

‘‘Hey buddy.’’ Bob greets him groggily and kisses his forehead. Jesse is wearing his pajamas and holding a bottle. He thinks the children, who must be up already, and Sara and Lupe are making breakfast. Jesse hops on his lap and because he’s a big toddler, it hurts like hell. ‘‘Lay down, you can’t jump and drink.’’ 

Bob stays in bed while Jesse finishes his bottle. He lays on his side and stares at the slope of his nose, his big striking blue eyes, that if they weren’t indigo, they’d resemble Sara’s more than anything. Jesse stretches his arm and, as if he sensed his sadness, touches Bob’s cheek. 

‘‘Good morning!’’ A voice says behind him and he turns his head. Sara stands there, carrying Anna. She bends down and kisses him. ‘‘Coming for breakfast?’’

Bob sighs. His back and neck are killing him. He reaches for Anna’s foot and gives her a little affectionate tug. ‘‘I’m not hungry.’’ 

‘‘We’ve got guests, may I remind you.’’ 

Right. Guests. Bob had forgotten that detail entirely, about The Harrisons sitting in his kitchen and George’s brown eyes scanning everything around the round and piercing right through him. Bob’s not looking forward to it.

‘‘Did you tell them to stay?’’ Bob asks. 

‘‘Yes, I did.’’ Sara replies stoned-face and Bob rolls his eyes, falling back onto the pillow. ‘‘Don’t give me that look, Dylan. This is for your own good.’’ 

‘‘I can’t get up.’’ Bob whispers. ‘‘Pass me the pills.’’ 

Sara sighs and gives him the bottle. ‘‘It didn’t seem to hurt when you went riding yesterday…’’

‘‘It wasn’t hurting yesterday.’’ Bob says and swallows down two painkillers. ‘‘I don’t know what you want from me.’’ 

Sara bites the inside of her cheek and Bob knows he upsetted her. ‘‘I want the best for you.’’ 

Bob closes his eyes and exhales. ‘‘This is what’s best for me.’’ 

‘‘You can’t rot in bed all day.’’ 

‘‘I just… My back is killing me. I’d like to lay down a bit more.’’

That seems to be enough for Sara because she leaves the room after giving him an exasperated sigh. Next to him, Jesse has finished his bottle and starts to climb back on him.

‘‘You’re a big boy, you know that?’’ Bob tells him and Jesse nods with a smile on his face. 

‘‘ Poline, poline!’’ 

‘‘No poline today, daddy’s not feeling good.’’

‘‘Why?’’ 

‘‘My back hurts— Here.’’ Bob touches Jesse’s back. ‘‘Daddy hurts here.’’ 

‘‘Please, please, please!’’ Jesse starts begging, hopping on Bob’s lap and every jump sends waves of pain to his back and neck. 

Bob moans in pain and holds Jesse still. ‘‘Don’t move!’’  However, Jesse continues pleading and jumping. At one point, he gets down off Bob’s lap and starts jumping on the bed. It’s all too much for Bob who ends up yelling and yanking Jesse by his arm, forcing him to sit down. ‘‘Stay still goddammit!”’

He never screams at his kids, hell, he would never put his hands on them, but the irritation mixed with the excruciating pain made him explode. Jesse bursts into tears, whaling so loud Bob has to cover his ears. He runs out of the room, possibly to his mother’s arms and Bob feels like a monster, not only because he can’t stand up and be a regular father, but because he screamed at his own child. And Jesse is just a baby.  He has to make up for it so he gathers all of his courage and strength and attempts to sit down on the bed, every muscle down his neck and back strain, and by the time he manages to sit straight, Bob feels out of breath.

He starts regretting yesterday’s horseback riding activities.

Just as he’s about to stand up, a figure covers the doorway, and the blood rushes to his cheeks when he sees George standing there, wearing jeans and a cream colored sweater, his chocolate hair perfectly combed, as if he woke up extra early for an appointment at the hairdresser. But Bob is not only taken back by his beauty but by the fact that he’s made out of stone today and George found him in a vulnerable estate.

‘‘Morning…’’ George says, with his hands in his pockets. Bob notices the embarrassment as well. 

Last night events pass by in his head. He now remembers he was far from nice to George when he played the guitar for them. He didn’t mean it, it seems like he doesn’t mean a lot of his actions these days but it’s much deeper than that, it’s a troubling sensation inside his head, where any attempt to cheer him up leads to extreme vexation. And hearing Sara telling him to sing and George singing instead, probably noticing how uncomfortable Bob was just makes it even worse. He feels guilty.

‘‘Hey, man.’’ Bob says with a wry smile. ‘‘Had breakfast yet?’’

‘‘Not yet, we’re about to. Sara told me to come look for you...’’ George replies, casually but his eyes linger on Bob, and he feels the weight of them like stones crushing him. Stop looking at me like that. ‘‘Are you alright?’’

Barely. ‘ ‘Yeah… just…’’ Bob stops himself. He doesn’t want George to know the extent of his pain, it’s humiliating. ‘‘Tell her I’ll be there in a moment, but don’t wait for me.’’ 

George looks at him up and down one more time which seems to last an eternity and then leaves. Bob pops another pill and wishes he could be the friend George expected. Instead he’s bitter, broken and almost paralyzed. 

When Bob attempts to stand up anew, he’s stopped by George coming back in the room with a wooden tray with eggs, waffles and coffee, all plated for two. Bob can’t speak, he just watches George bring in the chair from Sara’s dressing table and set it in front of Bob, where he rests the tray of food. The weight of George’s body next to him on the mattress resonates with him.

‘‘Sara said you weren’t feeling too good.’’ George says and folds the sleeves of his sweater. ‘‘Thought I’d keep you company.’’ 

Bob blinks and all he does is nod. There’s something inside his chest, like warm, syrupy affection, the acrimony in him fighting for its life. Bob still doesn’t know who should win between the two. 

‘‘I don’t normally eat waffles… But they’re great.’’ George says, taking a bite out of his food.

Bob digs his fork in the scrambled eggs. He can’t say this isn’t kind of awkward but he allows the small talk, he owes it to George. ‘‘American delicacy. What do you usually eat for breakfast?’’

‘‘Toast and beans.’’ George replies. ‘‘British delicacy.’’ The corners of Bob’s mouth twitch upwards in amusement. He had forgotten how cut-and-dried George’s comedy was. 

‘‘I’d say fish and chips are a delicacy from Britain. I tried to get something similar in other places and they never do it like you guys.’’

‘‘It’s quite unique, I must say, old oil and fresh fish, that’s the touch.’’ 

‘‘There’s quite a lot of unique stuff from Britain, right? Like monarchy, beans and toast for breakfast…’’ 

‘‘And Beatles.’’ George swallows his ironic laughter with eggs. 

Bob stares at the distance and grins, George’s body is warm next to his, the soft fabric of his sweater brushing with Bob’s forearm. ‘‘And Beatles, yes.’’ Bob repeats. And you , he means.

Bob doesn’t see much of George for the rest of the morning. Bob can’t say he misses him, but his absence is noticeable, Bob thinks he might be giving him space. He’s all alone in the house he reckons, Sara often takes the kids out in the town with Lupe and Bob assumes George and Pattie went with them. All alone, he decides he can stand up and moan in pain as much as he wants. He walks to his art studio and lights up a much needed joint. Bob sets up a white canvas and the trees outside his window inspire him to paint an autumn landscape. 

‘‘Hey.’’ Someone says behind him and Bob jumps, his heart threatening to jump out of his ribcage. He turns around and finds George standing there.

‘‘What the fuck, man?’’ Bob exclaims, the beat of his heart rapid and wild. ‘‘I thought you had left.’’ 

Bob feels the annoyance resurge. If George is here, it means he can’t groan in peace. If George is here, it means he heard Bob moan in pain like an old sickly man. 

‘‘Didn’t wanna leave you by yourself.’’

Bob raises and eyebrows and turns his head back to the canvas. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, he’d be by himself in his own home, safe and sound. He’s not a dying man or a toddler, he doesn’t need constant supervision and he believes George should know this.

‘‘I can manage by myself.’’

‘‘I know.’’ 

Oh, so he knows. Bob opens the white paint and begins to coat the canvas with the base. ‘‘So did Sara tell you to stay?’’ It’s all clear to him now. 

George speaks after a beat. ‘‘She suggested we could spend some time together.’’ 

Bob clicks his tongue. ‘‘Did she also suggest you to have breakfast with me?’’

‘‘What? No! That was me. I thought you might like company.’’

‘‘Like right now?’’ George is quiet and Bob waits for the base to fully dry. 

George is kind, he’s always been but he really doesn’t know how to take the hint that Bob needs to sink in his sadness and loneliness. 

‘‘Y’know…’’ George starts and Bob takes a big puff out of his joint. ‘‘You invited me here. You asked me to come here.’’

‘‘Where are you going with this, man?’’ Bob turns around. 

‘‘That you can tell me to leave anytime! If you don’t want me here, I’ll fuck off, y’know. I’m just trying to be a good friend to you.’’ George says. 

‘‘You know how you can be a good friend? Try and help me find a solution for this fucking back pain instead of being my wife’s puppet.’’ Bob spits out and George steps back. Okay, perhaps that was too much. Bob immediately regrets saying it. 

‘‘You’re a prick.’’ George mumbles and leaves the room. 

As much as Bob wants to chase him, he can’t run after him so he takes his time to walk past the door, following George’s footsteps until he finds him at the front door, putting on his jacket. 

‘‘Where are you going?’’ Bob asks him and George raises his head, looking at him perplexed.

‘‘Going out for a walk.’’ 

Bob watches him for a moment and then grabs his own jacket. ‘‘Let’s go.’’ 

George stops as Bob steps out the house, putting on the denim. ‘‘Are you sure you can walk?’’ 

‘‘I’m here with you, aren’t I? C’mon.’’ 

They walk together where Bob’s farm stretches in the distance, past the pumpkins and other produce, where the house sits and watches over them while they hike uphill. The crush of the fallen dry leaves fills the silence between them. Bob focuses on the way his muscles pull and ache with every step. Bob wonders what George must be thinking right now, probably the worst of him, after all, he hasn’t been a warm host.

He looks at the blue sky and the birds chirping in the distance, at the greenery extending miles and miles, the orange and reds of the trees and he takes a deep breath. He didn’t have this sight while locked up in his room. 

‘‘I didn’t mean it, you know, what I said.’’ Bob starts, carefully. He’s grateful George is not the one to throw blows at people.

‘‘I know.’’ 

‘‘What was it? What you called me?’’ 

‘‘A prick, like a dick… Well, y'know, someone who is daft.’’ George’s mouth threatens to break into a smile.

Bob chuckles. ‘‘I’ve been daft , yeah, an asshole.’’ 

‘‘I wanna apologize, though. I think you’ve got all the right to be annoyed by me.’’ 

Bob shakes his head. ‘‘You’re just trying to be a good friend, right?’’ 

‘‘Yeah and… Trying to adjust to all of this .’’ George gestures. ‘‘Y’know, I wasn’t expecting to see you like this … Four kids and all. It’s not the Dylan I read in the letters…’’ 

Bob understands the shock. He was avoiding the bigger picture in their exchange of letters, omitting the fact that having a house full of kids was stressful and that he wanted to dig a hole for himself and stay there.

‘‘George… It doesn’t matter. I’m still me.’’ 

‘‘Didn’t you die in that crash?’’ 

‘‘Man, come on, you know what I meant. I’m still Bobby.’’ George nods and he stares at his shoes as they walk some more. Bob is sure he hasn’t convinced him yet. He hates seeing him like this, so he says, ‘‘Would you like to stay for Thanksgiving?’’ 

‘‘When’s that?’’

They stop altogether, the faint sunshine hits George’s tanned complexion and reflects on the brown of his eyes and Bob is glad they made it outside. He now realizes how long and dark his eyelashes are, his skin marked by light craters, a sign of his recent juvenile years— and other details to his face Bob wishes he had more time to point out (as in, but not limited to, the barely noticeable freckles on his nose or the fullness of his bottom lip). 

‘‘In like 4 days.’’ 

He wants George to say yes but he blinks and shrugs. ‘‘I’ll have to ask Pattie, I think she needs to go back pretty soon…’’

Bob feels a slight disappointment. He’s aware he hasn’t been that fun but the prospect of seeing George go so soon troubles him. He’s like a breath of fresh air, like light seeping through the cracks and like wildflowers growing in unexpected places. Bob didn’t know how much he missed him until now and how bad he’d hate to watch him leave without showing him his best.

‘‘I’d love it if you stayed.’’ Bob says, gazing at him. He watches George blush in real time and it’s as endearing as one could imagine. 

The sight of his smile is out of this world, uplifting and impactful. Bob feels terrible for even upsetting him. ‘‘Yeah… Well, I’ll let you know.’’ 

‘‘I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a host. I was okay yesterday but my back is killing me right now.’’ 

‘‘I didn’t mean to imply you were not hurting…’’ George says, seemingly referring to their exchange yesterday.

‘‘It comes and goes really. I still have to take it easy according to the doctor, but I don’t listen.’’ 

‘‘I’m sorry I made you come here.’’ 

Bob grins. ‘‘I’m glad you made me come here. It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?’’ 

They’ve seemed to stand closer to each other now, like magnets being pulled to one another. George is not looking away when he says, ‘‘Yeah, it is.’’

That’s when Bob looks up and there he is, smiling warmly at him, with the most beautiful and inviting brown eyes he has ever seen. The pain leaves his body for a moment and there's only him. Blue sky, orange trees, November air and him.

“There they are!”

Bob steps back, startled at the sound of Sara's voice in the distance. He turns around and she waves from the driveway, getting the children out of the car with Pattie and Lupe. Bob is thankful they can’t see how badly he is blushing from afar.

‘‘Are you feeling better?’’ George asks him. ‘‘With your back, I mean.’’

Bob clears his throat. ‘‘Oh yeah, kinda. The weed helped.’’ 

Jesse and Maria come in rushing from the car, holding out candy. Bob braces himself, about to be tackled by his kids. 

‘‘Dad, look!’’ Maria holds out a huge spiral lollipop. ‘‘Mom got it for me.’’ Bob frowns, this will keep them away for days.  ‘‘George, look, look!’’ Bob laughs, he didn’t know she felt comfortable enough to call George by his name.

George kneels by Maria and starts talking to her as Jesse approaches him, and Bob believes he’s another one who needs an apology. ‘‘Daddy!’’ 

‘‘Hey, buddy!’’ Bob kneels to get on eye level. ‘‘What did you get?’’ Jesse holds out a bag of jelly beans. ‘‘Are you gonna share with Daddy?’’ He kisses his forehead and brushes out the hair sticking to his forehead. ‘‘Daddy’s very sorry for yelling, he was just mad.’’ 

Without a word Jesse enfolds him and Bob carries him up back to the house, with George and Maria next to him.

Chapter Text

‘‘Thanksgiving?’’ says Pattie, putting on her nightgown. ‘‘You want to stay for thanksgiving?’’

George wraps himself with the blankets. ‘‘Yeah, Bob suggested.’’

Pattie raises her thin eyebrows. ‘‘Now he wants you to stay? He hasn’t been kind to you.’’

‘‘I know but he was quite apologetic today, I think he warmed up to me.’’ Pattie doesn’t say anything for a moment. She joins George under the blankets and scoots closer to him. ‘‘I think it’d be a good idea to stay, he needs me.’’ 

‘‘I don’t think he needs you. Don’t mind what Sara says, what he shows it’s what counts.’’ 

George’s heart drops at her words. ‘‘So you think he doesn't like me?’’

‘‘I think he likes you, but you’re a much better friend than he is to you.’’ 

George allows it to sink in. He understands what Pattie is trying to get across but she wasn’t in the meadow with them earlier, she didn’t see what George saw. She didn’t see the Bob he knows, the one hidden under pounds of skin, muscle and sorrow. 

‘‘I want to give him a second chance, he hasn’t been doing good.’’

Pattie has never been one to question him, they hardly ever disagree, so he’s not surprised when she allows him to stay. ‘‘But you have to be back after thanksgiving, alright?’’ 

‘‘Of course, darling.’’ George leans over and kisses her deeply. There’s a fire inside of him from earlier, it feels appropriate to burn it down with his wife without having to question the reason why it was there in the first place. 

‘‘George…’’ She murmurs against his lips, her smile shaping over his mouth when George slides his hands under her dress. ‘‘Are we really…?’’

George lets his hands do the talking and he makes love to her, both sighing quietly into each other’s lips as he tries not to think about what the next four days will bring.

The next morning everyone gathers for breakfast… Except Bob. 

‘‘He’s in pain again.’’ Sara says, looking distressed as Sammy latches onto her. ‘‘I called the doctor already, he’s on his way.’’ 

Pattie comforts her by taking her hand and assuring her Bob will be fine. 

‘‘Do you think he’ll want breakfast?’’ George asks, thinking about joining him once again, remembering the way his expression brightened thanks to him.

‘‘He won’t eat anything. Whenever it gets like this, he falls into these somber moods. It takes an army to get him to eat. I’m surprised he ate with you yesterday.’’ 

George bites his lip and focuses on his food. At one point he turns around and counts the steps between the kitchen and where Bob lays. He remembers Bob’s words, about being a good friend and helping him find a cure for his back pain, and he feels helpless but he believes Sara feels the same way, being his wife and having four children that need care.

Right after breakfast the doctor comes and it turns the house into chaos. The children get restless and start asking questions about their dad, the babies start bawling and Sara looks like she’s about to have a breakdown. 

‘‘He hates needles, I’ll have to be there with him…’’ Sara whispers to Pattie. Anna, who was in her mother’s arms after Sammy was fed, is taken by Pattie and attempts to console her.

‘‘Go, we’ll watch them.’’ Pattie tells her and Sara smiles warmly at her before disappearing into the hallway with the doctor.

Lupe succeeds in consoling Sammy but Anna cries harder now that her mother is out of her sight. 

‘‘No, Jesse!’’ Maria exclaims, snatching her doll away from Jesse’s tiny hands. ‘‘It’s mine!’’

Jesse starts having a tantrum and Pattie begs for help with her eyes. George remembers what Paul used to do when his cousins misbehaved. He fetches his guitar from the guest room and starts strumming it.

‘‘Want a song?’’ He asks, trying to imitate Paul’s cheerful voice. 

‘‘Jesse, a song, come on!’’ Pattie kneels next to him and tries to get his attention. 

George starts singing a nursery rhyme and Jesse remains on the floor, red as a tomato. He tries a Beatles song and if it wasn’t for the highly stressful situation , he'd laugh to himself. However, Jesse is unfazed by it and Anna continues screaming in Pattie’s arms. Maria watches expectantly and George remembers where he is, who this house belongs to and who these children answer to.

He plays the first song that comes to mind. Bob’s kids don’t recognize his rendition of I Want You at first, not even when Jesse ceases crying, so George does an impression of their dad’s singing.

‘‘Look Jesse, it’s daddy!’’ Pattie tells him and George laughs. 

This is utterly ridiculous and kind of disrespectful, George thinks, but it does the trick, soon enough, George is sitting on the floor with Pattie and Lupe and the rest of the kids. Jesse cleans his tears and stares at George, probably confused as to why this stranger sounds like his father. Even Anna stops crying and begins clappíng. Maria sings along and twirls in one spot and it’s like George has them in a trance. He hears a painful scream coming from one of the rooms but he sings and plays louder to prevent the children from hearing it and it seems to work. Minutes later, when the song is almost over, Sara and the doctor come out of the room and she looks over at them, astonished. When the doctor leaves, Jesse runs to her mothers arms. 

‘‘Thank you guys, I can’t believe you tamed them.’’ She says. 

‘‘Is he alright?’’ George can’t help but ask.

‘‘He’s sedated. The doctor gave him a strong shot. He should feel better when he wakes up.’’

George feels as if he’s starting to get sick. He can’t leave, he can’t leave Bob like this. That’s why when it’s time for Pattie to leave, he is sure of his decision, he’ll be staying. He drives her to the airport and waits until it’s time for her departure. He knows she wants him to go with her but George feels split. However, he's already made up his mind.

When George returns to the Dylans' property, Sara’s in the kitchen with Lupe and George takes the opportunity to thank her for being a warm host. ‘‘You’ve been great.’’ 

‘‘You’re an amazing friend, George. I’m happy you’re here. We love thanksgiving, it’s a shame Pattie couldn’t stay.’’

‘‘Her mum’s having surgery and she promised she’d be there for her but she sends her best wishes, she’s looking forward to Bob’s recovery.’’

Sara draws a kind smile. ‘‘Speaking of… He’s awake.’’ 

George’s heart fills with excitement. ‘‘Where is he?’’ 

‘‘He’s outside with the kids. He feels better, you may wanna keep an eye on him, keep him away from the stable for me, please?’’ Sara teases.

‘‘Yes, m’am.’’ 

George goes through the kitchen door and heads for the trampoline, where he finds Jesse and Maria jumping on it. Bob sits on a lawn chair, watching them with Anna on his lap. George sits next to him on the grass quietly and tickles Anna on the side who giggles into her father’s chest.

‘‘Hey man, where’s your other half?’’ Bob asks, his voice sounding like his normal self, leveled and serene. 

‘‘She’s gone, said I was in love with another.’’ 

‘‘Oh yeah? Who?’’

‘‘A man.’’ 

Bob laughs and it’s music to George’s ears. The color is back to his face and the blue of his eyes is as vibrant as a summer sky. ‘‘You crack me up, man.’’ 

‘‘How’s your back?’’ 

‘‘Much better. Let me tell ya, drugs are magical. I had a great few hours of sleep and then I woke up feeling brand new— Jesse, be careful!’’ 

‘‘Good to hear.’’ George stares at the kids jumping on the trampoline, at how high Maria jumps and how Jesse tries to do the same. ‘‘Is she yours?’’ George can’t help but ask.

‘‘She’s from Sara’s previous marriage and I adopted her when we got together. But I mean… she’s mine.’’ Bob smiles at Maria. ‘‘Do you want children?’’ 

George looks down at Anna bouncing on Bob’s lap, seemingly eager to be with her siblings. He’s always wanted children, he’s used to having a full house but Pattie has been unable to give him any kids. He avoids dwelling on it, because there’s nothing much to do other than trust the doctors and tell himself that their lives are too fast and busy for babies. ‘‘Yes. We’re trying.’’ 

‘‘You’ll get there. If you really want, you can have some of mine for a few months.’’ 

They chuckle together. George pinches Anna’s cheek gently. ‘‘Pattie really loved this one, she’s the cutest.’’ 

The love in Bob’s eyes when he looks at his kids it’s indescribable and George wonders when is it going to be his turn to adore someone as much. ‘‘She’s daddy’s little girl, aren’t you darling?’’

George smiles at the way Bob plants kisses on Anna’s little face and she shrieks with happiness.

‘‘George, George!’’ Maria calls from the trampoline. ‘‘Jump with us!’’ 

He hesitates, but Maria’s gleeful expression is inviting and when was the last time George jumped on a trampoline? He climbs over and holds Maria’s hand to avoid trampling her. Soon enough, Jesse is tugging at his jeans and George picks him up. Maria and George jump together, with Jesse laughing in his arms. Maria falls over multiple times, cackling with amusement but getting up to continue jumping. 

For a moment, George forgets about Bob and when he looks down, Bob is staring at them with a smile, and George has a feeling that, as much as he loves his children, he’s beaming straight at him. It’s the most he has seen his smile since he got here. George smiles back and his guts are on fire, fluttering, upside down. This is more than he can handle. One moment, Bob wanted nothing to do with him and now he’s gazing back as if George is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. It’s conflicting, confusing and it only fuels George’s angst. 

George breaks eye contact, he can't bear it, instead he stares at the distance, over Bob's garden on the other side of the house. “You've got a garden! Why didn't you tell me?” George exclaims. 

“It's ridden with weeds, some plants are dying. I ain't got a gardener no more…” Bob replies.

“What happened to them?” George gets down from the trampoline, leaving María and Jesse to it.

“I fired him.”

“Why?”

Bob tries to repress a smile, but it eventually shows up. He chuckles. “He was flirting with my wife.”

❧

Besides guitars, racing cars, Indian culture and Bob Dylan's music, gardening is one of George's many special interests. He rejoices in getting his hand dirty, inhaling the fresh smell of flowers and plants, watching seeds sprout and turn into living beings. That's why he insists on helping with the Dylans' garden during his short time with them.

George starts by yanking weeds, and once he makes sure they are not poisonous, he has Maria and Jesse doing it as well.

“You know, kids, they yearn for labor. Give them a shovel or bricks or something, and they'll do it without a question. Ask them to pick up their damn toys and it's a two hour tantrum.” Bob comments.

“It's because they like getting their hands dirty… We are not meant for all of the luxury we have now. We come from stone and dirt and fire. And kids, well, they're small, they're not corrupted by commodities like we are.“ George replies looking over his shoulder where Bob is standing. 

“Are you saying I should let my kids do my gardening?” Bob asks, with a smile.

“Yes.“ George returns his focus to the grass but he swears he can feel Bob's grin on the back of his head. Jesse comes by and drops a handful of weed in a trash bag. “Good job!“ 

“Oh man, you're gonna need a three hour bath…” Bob says to Jesse, whose clothes and hands are covered in dirt and grass. Soon enough, Sara calls for lunch but George is too concentrated on the garden to move. The kids bolt inside. “Hey, wash your hands, you two!“ 

“Aren't you going inside?” George asks. He's on his hands and knees on the dirt and he thinks he might need to discard these jeans after he's done.

“Nah, I'll stay with you.” 

George almost forgets that Bob is standing behind him, watching every move of his hands. It's usual for the rest of the world to become background noise when he's concentrated on a task, so when Bob drops next to him, he's startled for a second.

“What are you doing mate?” George asks, sitting on his legs. Bob is on his knees yanking the weeds from the root and tossing them in the trash bag.

“Fixing my goddamn garden.” Bob mutters and George senses a hint of frustration in his voice. He wonders what's got him worked up now.

“Your back… you'll hurt yourself.”

“I can't have you working here like a slave, you're my guest.”

“Bob, it's nothing, really—”

Bob exhales through his nose. The strength he is using to pull the grass is almost violent. “What kind of man I am if I can't fix my own fuckin' garden?”

Pulling, yanking, tossing. The veins on his neck are evident, and Bob's face begins to redden.

“Hey…“ George says, having the nerve to touch Bob's hand mid pulling. And Bob stops, he freezes in time, and it's like George freezes as well.

George has a habit of forgetting about the world when he is too focused on a task. He wonders if that's the reason why the world seems to stop spinning, the air comes to a halt and all of the falling leaves from the trees are frozen mid-air for a split second while his hand is over Bob's warm flesh. 

Bob's hand grips the dirt under his palm and George's fingers find a spot between Bob's, touching the same patch of dirt. George stares at their hands, dumbfounded, not even understanding how their fingers suddenly intertwined. It all happens and ends so quickly. Bob turns his head towards him and George retrieves his hand like he just touched fire. 

Bob stands up abruptly and George's heart falls. He fucked it up, he ruined everything with his queer crap and now Bob seems aggravated, almost sick. George starts to sweat under his jumper and he cleans his damp hand with his jeans (he purposefully misses the other, hoping the feeling of Bob's skin lingers on his palm for longer).

“I'm no crippled, George! I can do shit on my own.” Bob exclaims. He watches him light up a cigarette.

“I know, I just—”

“No man, you don't get it. You know how long has this garden been sitting here untouched? Two months. I don't let anyone touch it, not even my other workers, because I said I'd do it after I fired that jackass.”

“Why did you fire him?” George questions. He knows it's not because of Sara, Bob has never struck him as the jealous type.

Bob seems to hesitate then blows a big cloud of smoke. “He wanted to work for Bob Dylan, you know? He didn't wanna work for a family, he just wanted to get close to me. I found him going through my paintings once and how I wanted to kick his ass! I didn't, because he was a kid, a hillbilly, merely nineteen, but man— you don't do that, it's foul. You don't go snooping around people's houses, especially not in my fuckin' art room. It's invasive, it's like when parents read their children's diaries. It's fucked up.”

Bob squats and extends his hand towards George. He takes the cigarette gladly. The red from Bob's face disappears after the rant.

“This garden would have been ready if it wasn't for my back and neck. Or if I trusted new people…” Bob whispers. “But I have to choose what task I will do that's going to take all the good feelings away. Normally, riding takes the cake…” Bob laughs softly to himself and George watches his every move carefully before giving him back the cigarette.

“Don't strain your back. I have this under control.”  George finally tells him. “You can water it later. I'll let you do that.“ 

Bob scoffs a laugh. “Now I know what the kids feel like.” 

“I'm sorry.” George murmurs. It's getting difficult to even talk to him. Perhaps Pattie was right, maybe George is too much of a good friend for Bob. “I'm trying…” 

“Yeah, man, I'm sorry too.” 

George cleans the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you really? Because you continue to push me away when I'm trying to help you.” George blurts out, his honesty getting the best of him.

“But why are you doing this? I haven't been kind to you!”

George bites his lip to contain the frustration. Bob must've gone blind, George thinks, that he can't see his admiration for him.

“Honestly? I don't know.” George mutters and continues to work on the dirt, at least it won't talk back and question why George is yanking the weeds out, why is he trying to make it better. “But it isn't for myself, that's for sure.”

“Come on man, let's—“ Bob says, softer now. “Let's cool down, have some lunch.”

For the rest of the day, George works on the garden as much as he can, until Bob eventually realizes he'll have to get a few real gardeners to take care of it while his back heals. Still, George cleans up as much as he can and gives Bob recommendations on what plants to sow. 

Later that night, the cold is unforgiving and George wishes he had Pattie's warm body to cuddle with. He finds himself wandering outside his bedroom, trying to see if Bob is awake. He peeks into the painting room and finds him standing in front of a sketched canvas. George doesn't want to intrude again so he knocks first. He is met with a smile when Bob turns around.

“Can't sleep?” Bob asks as George steps in.

“It's bloody cold.”

“Here.” Bob hands him a spliff and it's exactly what George needs.

“What are you painting?” George asks after taking a long drag.

“A fall landscape.”

George takes a seat on a stool and watches Bob's right hand work on the canvas, how every gentle brush stroke, with time, becomes a shadow, then a shape. It's the same hand he touched and suddenly, George's own hand is prickled by tiny needles. 

“You're a very talented painter, by the way.” George says although he thinks Bob doesn't need a reminder. 

“Thanks, man. Do you paint? No— wait, you've told me. You painted your house with all of these groovy colors and shapes, right? See, I remember.”

George smiles. “Yeah, Pattie and I got bored of the white exterior and just started drawing symbols.  We have anyone that passes by to write or draw something on the wall if they want. But it's nothing like what you do, you're actually a painter. You're very talented Bob, don't throw it to waste.”

George didn't exactly plan the last part, much less he expects Bob to react positively to it. 

Bob stops painting, he drops the brush in water and turns to George. “Picture this— “Imagine if I had been killed that time…”

George frowns, he doesn't like where this is going, “What are you tryin' to say?”

“...Would you miss the music I could have done if I lived or would you miss me?”

George looks at him, puzzled. What kind of comparison is that? “I would miss you of course! You're my mate.”

“What if this was it? What if all I did was everything I could give? What if I'm dead ?”

George steps closer towards him, eager to make him understand that this allegory doesn't work in his case, “But you're not! Feel yourself, listen to yourself, you're alive.” George rests his hand on Bob's chest, right where his heart is and he feels it beating wildly, alive. “There's more of where that came from, I know it.”

Bob looks down, suddenly saddened. “You don't understand George. You don't truly see me.”

George feels his own heart turn into dust, he removes his hand from Bob's chest. “What d'ye mean?”

“You see me as Bob Dylan, not just regular old Bob, or Bobby.”

George is at a loss for words because it's simply not true. But how could he express it without his words stumbling with each other? Without pouring his heart out like a damn soft sod in front of the coolest man on earth? He wishes Bob knew how much he sees him , even through muffled phone calls and cursive letters, on the work of his farm, in the way his children laugh and run free. 

If only Bob knew what George felt in the garden when their hands touched or when he jumped with his children on the trampoline and Bob's eyes were fixed on him, he wouldn't doubt what George sees. George wishes he could open up his chest if feelings had a shape and color, Bob would see the rush his music provokes, the passion and inspiration his lyrics entail. George can't separate Bob from his music because he is music. But he'll never understand, not when George can't utter a word. Perhaps there's another way to let him know.

The joint between his fingers burns and George takes one last puff before passing it on back to Bob. In a marijuana–induced haze, George tips Bob's chin with his finger trying to find his gaze, and George thinks Bob might look away and step back, calling him a slur. But he does not, and that's when George knows this is the best time to do it. 

Slowly, he leans forward, giving Bob enough time to turn his head, to reject him, to punch him even, but he remains still, his eyes fixed on George's. He kisses him, George does, chastely but with a firm press on the lips. Bob's mouth feels exactly how George pictured it while staring at him, the skin of his chin is stubbled and rough, but his lips are smooth and plump, with an earthy flavor from the weed.

Bob eventually breaks the kiss, looking perplexed. George comes back to earth and the haze diffuses. George knows he'll pay for this. 

“I'm sorry.” It's all George says before storming out and locking himself inside his bedroom, heart racing and beating out of his ears.

He wouldn't be surprised if Bob doesn't want to see him at all after this.

Chapter Text

George kissed Bob.

George kissed him, square on the mouth. And Bob didn't do anything about it, he didn't stop him, he didn't kick him out. He just let him kiss him. Bob didn't even demand an explanation from George when he watched him flee, he remained frozen for a few seconds before he went back to bed where his wife slept soundly. He struggled to fall asleep, the taste and feeling of George's lips lingering on his mouth kept him awake for most of the night. And when he managed to fall asleep, he saw George and his precious mouth.

Bob finds himself zooming out during breakfast, even when his children are screaming and Sara is scolding them. His stomach swoops whenever he remembers what happened last night. The way George tipped his chin with his slender and calloused finger so delicately, Bob shivers just at the thought.

“Bob!” Sara exclaims, her expression tells him she's been trying to get his attention for the last couple seconds.

“Yeah?“ He replies nonchalantly and takes a bite out if his food as if his insides weren't turning. 

“Could you feed Sammy? I pumped some milk in the bottle.” She asks and Bob snaps back to reality. Right, his wife needs assistance as Anna screams at the top of her lungs. She wants to be fed as well.

Bob grabs the bottle with breast milk and holds Sammy as he feeds him. Anna doesn't stop crying until Sara starts breastfeeding her. This is Bob's daily life, this is reality. How could he give this up and focus all of his time on music when his children can't even feed themselves yet? Knowing how easy it is for him to go down the path of destruction, the last thing he needs is reasons to drink and do drugs. He would rather be dead than go back to the life he lived years ago, from stage to hotel rooms, surviving off pills and alcohol, Sara (or Joan) holding him as he threw up all over himself. He was pathetic. But now, he has a purpose, a family that relies on him.

“Where's George?“ Sara asks him.

Bob's heart races. “Uh— I don't know. Probably sleeping.” Which Bob thanks for, as he plans to avoid him as much as possible until he can figure out the reason for his inner turmoil.

“Did you hang out last night? I felt you coming to bed late.”

Bob breathes out and stares down at Sammy to avoid Sara's gaze. “Yeah… For a bit. He went to bed early, though. He was tired.”

“Aren't you going out today? To buy some seeds you said during dinner.”

Bob doesn't remember saying that. He doesn't seem to remember anything prior to that kiss.

“Yeah, George is supposed to come with me.” No, that's a bad idea, he realizes, so he says, “I'm taking the kids.”

Sara seems delighted and Bob is glad to use his children as an excuse to not talk about it. However, he still has to wake up George. After he's done with Sammy, he knocks on George's bedroom door.

“ Come in !”

Bob has never needed to take a deep breath before coming into a room. When he opens the door, George is buttoning his shirt.

“Morning.” Bob says as he tries to focus on another object inside the room.

“Hey…” George greets him softly and Bob knows they are not going to address the kiss anytime soon by how tense George seems. He's grateful in a way.

“I'm leaving in a minute to pick out some seeds, you coming?”

There's a hint of hesitation in his eyes, Bob can see it, until he says, “Yeah, I'll help you choose the best ones.” Bob offers him a smile of gratitude and George opens his mouth slightly to say something. He must want to mention it, perhaps apologize. It terrifies Bob. 

Luckily, George closes his mouth when he looks down and Bob notices Jesse entering the room. He knows George won't talk as long as the kids are around. And that's a good thing.

❧

The weather during the fall is unpredictable, one minute it could be on the verge of snowing and another the sun will be out, rays of sunshine feeding the land. To Bob's dismay, today is a sunny day, not hot enough to be wearing a tank top and shorts, but warm enough to not wear several layers of clothing outside. 

Jesse is in his arms as he walks with George and Maria along the market, the babies had to stay home with Sara. This is the only town where Bob doesn't have to worry about being recognized, the locals know him, they know his family lives here and they don't bother him. It's pleasant to stroll and shop without being swarmed by fans. By association, George is protected as well.

Bob doesn't know much about plants and seeds, therefore he allows George to pick out his favorite ones. None of the vendors expect to see a Beatle in their small town and Bob pretends their shocked expressions aren't amusing. He turns around when Maria shows him a stand full of sweets, he shakes his head in disapproval. “No, that's enough energy for the week.” He jokes and she frowns, crossing her arms.

“Ready?” George says behind him. When Bob looks over, he's holding a fistful of yellow daisies by the stem, as if he just yanked them from some old woman's garden.

“What are these?” Bob says, tracing a finger over the velvety petals.

“Marguerite daisies, the man gave them to me in exchange for an autograph for his daughter. Beautiful, aren't they?”

It's the brightest yellow Bob has seen, complementing George's golden complexion. They're delicate and cheerful. George picks out one and places it on Maria's hair, then a smaller one for Jesse's open hand.

“Want one?” George tells him and the blood rushes to his cheeks. It's as if he's caught red-handed, fantasizing about placing a yellow flower behind George's ear to match his brown locks. But George smiles cheekily and Bob rolls his eyes with a grin.

They continue walking down the street together. George whistles absently, a tune Bob doesn't recognize, his musical brain probably working out some new tunes for the next Beatles' recording session— if they even make it to the record.

When they pass by a record shop, Jesse yelps and points at the window. “Daddy!” 

Maria gasps. “Look, dad! It's you!”

Indeed, it is him in his John Wesley Harding cover, his latest record. However, next to it, there's the ominous Blonde On Blonde . Not that it's a bad one, Bob is quite proud of it, however, he's not fond of the chaos that followed said album. The picture on the cover makes him sick, he's terribly thin and pale, a result of binging uppers; his hair matted and frizzy, Bob barely washed it back then. On the other side of the window, contrasting the muted atmosphere of his record, the colorful and vibrant Sgt. Peppers sits on a stand. Bob remembers he didn't have many good things to say about The Beatles' magnum opus, he hopes George doesn't hold it against him.

“You're a celebrity around here.” George says slyly and Bob kisses his teeth.

“Look at you.” Bob points at the carnival of colors that is Sgt . Peppers . 

“We look a bit faggy, don't we?” 

Bob bursts out laughing. “A bit, yeah.” 

George laughs as well next to him and Maria asks, “Dad, what's faggy? ”

“A very bad word, sweetie, the kind of word that gets you grounded.” Bob tells her and George continues tittering next to him.

“We got a new record coming out pretty soon.” George says, on their way back to the car. “It's self-titled. I think I got me best tracks on there.” 

“I think your best tracks are unreleased.” Bob replies. He remembers the times George sent him a tape of his demos or scribbled the lyrics from a song he came up with on the back of his letters. “One day, when you do your own thing, you'll show them.” 

“I can't see that happening, it's terrifying.”

“Dad! Can we play in the park before we leave? Just for a minute, please!” Maria exclaims once they pass by a children's park.

Bob puts Jesse down and watches him run behind Maria, heading for the swings. It's just George and him now.

“George, you're on the same level as John and Paul.” Bob takes out two cigarettes and gives George one. “It's harder when it's two against one, but trust me, at this point, you're on their level.”

“Ta, mate. But they aren't really writing together anymore, John and Paul. I dunno, something shifted. The last sessions were bonkers. Ringo quit, he fucked off. And he came back of course, but it was serious when he left. I started to wonder if I could quit too.”

“Do you wanna quit?” Bob opens the fire for the both of them. 

George looks down for a moment. “No, not really. I can't see myself on me own.”

“I can see you on your own. You've got potential.” 

Bob sees George smile then placing the cigarette between his lips to hide his embarrassment. It's strange how fond he is of him.

“I wanna write a song with you, Bob.” George suddenly says and it feels like a love confession, one Bob can't reciprocate. He redirects his eyes to his children. Maria pushes Jesse on the swing. “Is it too much to ask?” 

Bob thinks George is pushing it. It's as if he's digging his fingers in his soul, trying to scoop more of him. With his sweet disposition, and the work on his garden, their fingers wrapping and that damn kiss… George has done enough. Bob is not used to this, not to this kind of attention, it's suffocating him because he does not know what to do with it. 

“Why, though?” Bob asks, not daring to look back at George.

“Because you're bloody talented. I wanna know your ways. You say I'm on the same level as John and Paul but I don't think I am…”

“You don't need my ways.” Bob mutters. Maria and Jesse are now heading for the slide.

“Y'know, Blonde On Blonde might be my favorite record of all time. When we went to India earlier this year it was the only western record I took. I didn't need it, because it was supposed to be a meditation retreat… But I needed it. It felt wrong to leave it behind.”

Bob struggles because as much as he would love to, he can't give George what he wants. It's virtually impossible to do it at the moment. What George ignores is that Bob hasn't been able to write at all, not even a line in a verse. It's not as if he's withholding his creativity, it's just simply non-existent. And it frustrates Bob, but it scares him more than anything, the idea of not being able to write what he used to, of people finding out how mediocre he truly is. And now, with George's revelation, the stakes are higher. What if what he writes isn't up to George's expectations? What if he doesn't meet his standards? 

“Hey…” George says softly when Bob falls silent as his fingers wrap around his wrist. The touch is electrifying and Bob retrieves his hand quickly. “I'm sorry… Uh— you don't have to, not if you're not ready.”

And there it is again, the slicing tension, George handing him an offer that Bob is only going to turn down. He wonders if George doesn't get tired of setting himself up for disappointment. 

Bob gathers his children together, eager to go back home and sink himself into the known misery of his pain. It's better than having George's vehement gaze trying to coax buried feelings out of him.

Back at the farm, George goes straight for the garden and Bob decides to stay inside, watching him from a window with a baby in his arms and a cup of tea in hand. The pull of muscle under the fabric of his shirt as he works the dirt with the shovel entices Bob and it feels voyeuristic, to stare at him behind a window, as his skin prickles with sweat.

“Weren't you gonna hire a gardener again?” Sara asks, joining him by the window.

“He insisted. I think he got excited by the flowers and seeds.”

“He's a sweetheart.” She says and Bob notices the tenderness in her voice, almost motherly. 

“He asked me to write a song with him…” 

“That's amazing!”

“...and I said no.”

“Why do you keep pushing him away? He clearly wants to be your friend.” Sara questions.

Frankly, Bob doesn't know either. But there's one thing he's aware of, he didn't flinch or pull back fast enough when George kissed him, he didn't push him away when he held his hand. It's much easier when it's physical, you're driven by instinct and desire, we all want to be touched and cared for. But it's unnerving to have someone who wants to dive deeper into the ocean of you, risking to drown and perish inside of you. Bob does not want that for George. 

“He's trying too hard.” Bob says to get Sara off his back. 

But it's never been that easy, that's why he married her. “You don't deserve him.” She says and before Bob can protest, she disappears.

Next thing he sees, it's Sara in the garden, handing George a tall glass of iced tea. They chat for a moment and Bob fears Sara might be right as he watches George with the sun in his eyes, beaming at her.  

The gentleness of George’s actions, of every touch, even in the cadence of his voice, how can such a thing persist in these trying times? Only a pure and nurturing soul like his could prevail. No wonder he is not backing down at all, using all of his might to bring out the best of him— if there’s anything of that left. 

The marguerite daisies from the market rest in a vase in the kitchen and Bob thinks it's not its vibrant color that brightens up the room but the hands that touched it for the intention of keeping them alive as long as possible. And that's George, he wants to cure everything and everyone with his Midas touch— hands on dirt, hands on flesh, fingers in wounds (without caring how invasive it might be).

Bob is gazing at the window to the garden and now, with Sara out of sight, George has removed his shirt. Bob's breathing quickens, he hasn't seen him this exposed before and wouldn't expect it from him in the middle of fall. His hair cascades effortlessly grazing his shoulders and Bob fantasizes for a split second about sinking his fingers in it. George grabs a shovel and starts digging a hole, his shoulder muscles tightening and releasing, moving under his sun-kissed skin right in front of his eyes. Bob's mouth dries up and he forgets that his tea is growing cold in his hand and Sammy is sucking on the collar of his sweater. 

Sensing Bob's eyes on him, George's turns to the window and waves with a smile. Bob mouths, “Aren't you cold?” and George shivers mockingly, wrapping his arms around his naked torso. They laugh together, glass separating them and Bob swears he can almost hear the sound of his laughter.

As George continues to work on the garden, Bob wonders about the kiss, about what inspired George to do it and why Bob didn't fight against it. He's never questioned his sexuality before, but George's lips have tested everything he thinks he knows about himself. Bob needs some answers before he drives himself mad.

He writes a note, short and simple. He needs to get George alone, it's the only way they'll be honest with each other. This is playing with fire and Bob is not afraid to get burned.

“ Meet me at midnight”

— Bobby

Chapter Text

George holds the note in his hand. He reads it once, twice, three times to make sure his brain is not playing sick tricks on him. Bob wants to meet secretly. 

Even when he takes an extensive shower to clear his head and wash away the grime from the day, his mind won’t make sense of the situation. If this is about the kiss, George thinks Bob is taking the opportunity to kill him without any witnesses. If Bob wants him dead for it, George won’t go down without a fight, he’d question him about not pushing him away, about not fighting back, that’ll give him reasons to turn the gun against himself. But George is overreacting of course, thinking about the worst case scenario because he’s still under Bob’s roof and Bob continues to smile at him tenderly. Whatever is going inside his head, George assumes it mustn't be that bad.

He stays up until midnight, starts to write a song and kills time inside the room, he pays attention to the fading chatter in the living room as the night rolls by. The children stop laughing, Sara stops walking around the house and the home falls silent, only crickets chirping in the distance.

George knows Bob must be in his art room so he sneaks out of his room, the hardwood floors creaking with every step. George knocks on the door and Bob lets him in.

“You wanted to see me?” He asks, stealthy. 

He sounds like a goddamn schoolboy in the headmaster's office and Bob seems to catch on because he says, “You're in trouble, George. I caught you cheating your math test.”

“Oh yeah? I can't help I'm shite at math.”

George hears him chuckle while keeping his gaze on the tree he is painting. “What are we gonna do about you then?” 

There's an edge to Bob's voice to which George replies matching the same teasing tone, “Five spanks on the bum.”

Bob breaks into a fit of giggles, trying to keep quiet. Right now, it feels as if they are the only humans awake on earth. The whole world is sleeping soundly but them.

“Wanna go out?” Bob says after his laughter ceases. 

“Isn't it cold outside?”

Bob shrugs. “Not really.”

George crosses his arms. The idea of sneaking out of the house is tempting, so he nods. Bob puts away his painting tools and they head for the door, grabbing their jackets. Bob shoves a spliff inside his pocket. When they're about to exit the door, George hearts jump at the sound of a kid's voice.

“Daddy?” It's Maria wearing a night dress up to her ankles and rubbing her eyes. “I had a nightmare.” 

Bob sighs next to George and says, “I'll be right back.” 

Bob disappears with Maria in arms, taking her back to her bedroom and George lights up a cigarette. This is his reality, Bob is a father, a husband and kissing him is probably the worst thing George has ever done and he believes Bob probably feels the same. 

He waits for Dylan for fifteen minutes until he comes back by himself. Eventually, they go outside the house and Bob is right, the night is not nearly as cold as it was the first few days of George's visit. 

‘‘Wanna go for a ride?’’ Bob asks. The night is dark and George can barely see where they are walking, he follows the sound of his footsteps and the dim lights on the porch. 

‘‘Can you even ride a horse?’’ George wonders, as far as he knows, it’ll be bad for his back.

Bob chuckles quietly and it’s velvety and enticing. ‘‘Who said anything about horses?’’ George follows Bob's path to the garage where his motorcycle slumbers. The realization hits when Bob hands him a helmet. “It won't mess up your hair.”

George smiles, blood rushing to his cheeks. Bob drives his motorcycle out the garage and George feels that he's about to embark in the most dangerous trip of his life, but he's not worried about the motorcycle. Bob turns on the beast with a satisfying roar and puts on his helmet. 

“Jump in!” Bob exclaims.

George hesitates, he'll have to sit very close to Bob in this thing and he's not sure if he can take it. But he does, his thighs graze Bob's and George makes sure to leave space between his crotch and his back. Just in case.

“Is this safe? It's very dark.” George wonders, strapping on the helmet.

“Nothing safe is worth the drive.” It's the last thing he hears Bob say before they take off and George's heart leaps.

They make it out of the farm, misty air blowing on his face. Bob is a fast driver and it feeds George's obsession with speed. Adrenaline shoots down his veins when they leave the farm behind and drive on the main road with the motorcycle lights leading the way. George looks up and the stars are brighter in the countryside, a half moon hovers in the sky and follows along like a guardian angel.

Five minutes of more road until Bob slows down and takes a turn. They enter the woods and George thinks this is a perfect spot to get murdered. Bob drives further in, the wheels crunching branches and dry leaves, then stops.

“We're here.”

George gets down and removes the helmet. He looks over and realizes Bob has brought him to the forest, near a small body of water. He could dump his body here and no one would notice, he thinks.

“What's this?” George asks. 

“My secret spot. You like it?”

Oh . “I can hardly see.”

Bob smiles and combs his hair flattened by the helmet. “Come.”

George follows him down to a boardwalk where they sit with their feet dangling over the water. “You come here often?” George asks him.

“Not as much as I would like. It gets busy, you know, with the kids and all.”

George nods. More crickets chirp around, he swears he hears frogs croaking as well. He loves nature, everything that comes with it— the sound of insects and small animals, the smell of flowers, and leaves and damp dirt. Sometimes he wishes he could live in the forest, be part of the trees and the bushes, like a creature from fairy tales.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Bob doesn't reply to his question, instead he stands up and starts removing his clothes. It's dark but his skin is creamy and light is reflected by the moonlight. George frowns and Bob says, “Wanna swim?”

No he doesn't. Getting wet at the moment sounds like hell. Bob eventually jumps in the water, leaving behind a pile of clothes. His curly head emerges with a flashing grin. “Don't be a pussy.” Bob teases him.

“I'm not a pussy.”

“C'mon, man! It's not that cold and it's pretty shallow.” 

George thinks this is utterly insane. Bob has gone mad. He starts undressing, Bob's eyes fixed on him. George looks away to prevent more embarrassment, then slowly submerges in the water. His body is immediately frozen. “Fuckin' hell, Bob.” 

Bob laughs. “It's not that cold.” 

“Oh yeah?” George splashes him as revenge.

“Fuck, man!” Bob splashes him back and George hisses. Only this time he won't retaliate.

Bob seems to be in his element in the water, he dives in and swims as George just stays in place, watching him and occasionally looking up at the sky and counting the stars that witness the landslide George finds himself in.

“Bob!” George calls him after he doesn't see him for a moment.

Bob pops up from underwater. “Yeah?”

George can't hide his annoyance any longer. The water is bloody cold, his hair is ruined and the suspense is killing him. “Why are we here?”

Bob diverts his eyes and chews on his bottom lip. “Uh… I just thought that you'd like a swim.”

“Bob.”

Bob bites his lip some more and pushes his curls back until he finally speaks, “Why did you kiss me, George?”

George knew this was coming, however, he finds no answer for it, at least not one he can communicate properly. “What— what do you mean?”

“Oh, don't play stupid with me, man! You know what you did.”

Because I wanted to show you how much you mean to me. Because I wanted to kiss the sorrow away. Because, because…

George thinks he might get sick. He splashes some water on his face. “I'm sorry for that, alright? It was wrong of me. It was a mistake, mate.”

George wishes he could see him clearly. He feels as if he's talking to a ghost, a shadow, not the actual person he wants to talk to. George searches for the blue of his eyes. 

“No, man, I think you meant it…” Bob says. George is breathless.

If Bob is planning to murder him, he should do it now. “It was a complete mistake, I don't know why I did it. I'm not a queer, y'know?”

“I don't think you're one, man.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disrespect you and Sara and your family. It was out of line…” George continues babbling, it's the only way he's not confronted by the truth: he loved kissing him and he's yearning for more.

Bob is silent for a moment and he steps forward, but George can see where this is going, so he immediately flinches. They have to go. This is wrong. He has to go.

“You need to stop running away.” Bob says, reaching over to hold his wrist, his two fingers placed on his pulse point. George wonders if he can feel how fast it is racing.

“Why did you bring me here?” George whispers.

In this case, time fails to stand still, it spins instead. Moonlight casts on the outline of Bob's body. The rest of the world moves faster but they are frozen in place, cold water chilling their bones, Bob's fingers on George's wrist, the same gesture George did earlier at the park. But he doesn't retrieve his hand, instead George leans into the touch. 

“So it's just the two of us.” Bob replies, equally as soft. He swims forward, his toes step on George's underwater.

“Are you gonna kill me?” George can't help but ask.

Bob smiles, a small laugh leaving his mouth. One look down, then back up. George can see his eyes now. The sea would be jealous of that blue.

“Not if you do it first.” 

George believes this is a sign, if not, thunder shall strike him. 

He grabs Bob's face and crashes their lips together, a spark ignites the fire and they're both burning in the water. Bob reciprocates, his hand pressed against the back of George's head, pushing him closer to his lips. George is hungry, he kisses him hard, fervently, he dares to slip his tongue inside Bob's mouth. And oh , it's sweet and slippery when Bob does the same. His hands remember he is shirtless and George traces the muscles of his shoulders and arms while Bob holds him in place by his neck. The kiss is forceful, with the delicious kind of violence George believed Bob would use to murder him, but he's killing him in the best way possible. The growing tension finally explodes like fireworks with every lick and brush of their tongues. George wants more, he needs more . He grabs Bob's small waist and brings him closer to his torso, now chest to chest. 

They separate for a moment to catch some air, faces only inches apart and breathing the same oxygen. George is sure he would be rock hard if it wasn't for the water, Bob's body feels too good— small and smooth, perfect to hold him and do what he pleases with it. 

“George…” Bob speaks, his lips brushing his.

“Yeah?”

“What's going through your head?”

Absolutely nothing sacred or morally correct.

George bites his lip and Bob's thumb brushes his cheek, wiping away the water. “How bad I wanna have ye.”

“Have me.” Bob answers quickly. George senses the desperation in his voice, it makes him ache.

They swim away together and head for the boardwalk. George helps Bob sit back on it, where their clothes are piled up together. George pulls Bob for another kiss and lays him flat on the wood, all of his skin is sopping wet, moonlight shining on the drops that cover his flesh. The water on his lips is saccharine, like a nectar George would love to drink from at any given chance.

George cups Bob over his underwear, feeling the shape of his stiff cock and his body shudders. “Oh, man.”, Bob sighs at the touch.

“What do ye want me to do?” 

“Just… Touch me.” Bob pulls down the waistband of his underwear and his dick springs free. George licks his lips. “Have you done this before?”

“No, you?” George asks.

Bob smiles, bottom lip hidden between his teeth. “I got head from a guy before, you know those cats hanging around like groupies when touring. Nothin' special.” George feels self-conscious given his lack of experience. He looks down at Bob's dick, red and leaking, and wonders if he'll be enough to please him. “Don't think about it too much, man. You'll do good, you've got big nice hands.”

George offers him a crooked smile but his expression changes when Bob brings George's fingers to his mouth. He lets out a quiet moan as Bob's lips close around his index and middle finger, eyes locked with his. George forgets to breathe for a second.

Bob leads George's wet fingers back to his cock where George fondles him steadily. This is like a toss off— masturbation, George reckons, he can mimic what he does to himself. He thumbs the tip, Bob is cut and his pubic hair is as curly as the hairs on his head. Adorable, like the sounds that escape his lips when George picks up the pace.  The sight of him is breathtaking— eyes closed, mouth parted, his cock leaking obscene amounts of pre. George's grip tightens. He feels his own dick raging with desire and his hands tremble when he reaches for his own underwear to bring it out. 

“Oh God.” Bob murmurs when George gets a hold of their dicks and begins to stroke them together with his own hand.

Bob's cock is delicious against his own. George spits into his own hand for lubrication and it seems that every move he makes, as meaningless as it is, drives Bob closer to the edge.  He leans forward and kisses him around his mouth, where Bob's lips are slack with pleasure and drinks every tiny sound that comes out of them. George feels Bob's slender fingers wrap around his forearm, digits digging on his flesh, his breathing rises and George doesn't mind the autumn air when they're both burning in the summer-like heat.

This is madness, like the first time George tried acid, where everything solid was liquid, and the liquids were solid, when colors distorted right in front of his eyes, when trees developed ears and flowers grew giant. The laws of physics and biology don't matter on an acid trip, George believes it's the same right now. The laws of society, marriage, morality and all of that crap are useless when George fondles his cock against Bob's own. However this is better than hallucinogens, than any drug that could alter his senses but equally as dangerous. Maybe Bob could actually kill him, a slow death at that, one by a thousand cuts— or by microdosing. 

If I don't kill him first.

“Fuck, shit.” Bob breathes out, his muscles contracting under George. 

They meet gazes and Bob spurts all of his come into George's hand, reaching his climax with a gasp. George releases his cock, allowing him to recover and continues to toss himself off over him. Bob reaches out for his dick and replaces his hand with his. 

“Bloody hell.” George whispers, his touch it's all he's ever wanted. There's a pleading look in Bob's eyes, straight out of a renaissance painting, it's both heavenly and alluring. He wants it as much as he does. 

George sits between his legs, Bob tugging his cock while his own rests on his pubic hair, George thumbs it curiously and Bob shivers, George loves that he's a sensitive little thing. 

“Georgie…” Bob mumbles. George moans, the name sending shocks of pleasure down his body.

“Bobby….” George leans forward, palms on the boardwalk, forehead pressed against Bob's. He kisses him once more. “Oh, baby…”

Bob smiles into the kiss and George's pleasure intensifies when Bob speeds up his strokes. George comes hard, whimpering into his lips, spilling all of himself all over Bob's abdomen and collapses next to him, with a blurred vision and shaking limbs. 

George's heart pounds so loud he swears Bob might hear it and the reality of the situation comes crashing down. He just shagged Bob Dylan. Well, if a mutual toss off counts as shagging. Either way, he kissed him and touched his cock, and the scariest part of all, it's that George loved it.

“You're fuckin' hot, George.” Bob blurts out. 

“Huh?” George says, he has to make sure he heard that correctly.

“I said you're hot. Shit, you might the hottest cat I know.” George can't help but laugh. It's all surreal, as if he was stuck in an acid induced trip where all of his deepest and dirtiest fantasies have come to light. “I'm glad you kissed me.”

That completely changes things. George feels hopeful, Bob doesn't feel as guilty as he thought he would.

“I thought ye were gonna murder me.”

“What?” Bob snorts a laugh. “Oh my God, you were serious!”

George blushes and chuckles, embarrassed. “Fuck off!”

“No man, there's no way. I like you a lot.”

George's chest grows hot, his heart leaps with excitement. It shouldn't do that, lust is one thing, but fondness beyond platonic grounds it's  stepping into dangerous territory.

Bob dives back in the water and George follows him. It's refreshing and soothing this time. He swims behind Bob, chasing his trail, then gets a hold of his ankle and pulls him back to his body. George doesn't need to say anything, neither does Bob, because they fall back together like magnets, lips fusing once more, their love finally unchained and free. George wonders what's the key to Bob's heart, which door does he have to throw down to reach for it. But most importantly, he hopes Bob lets him in this time when he comes in knocking.

Chapter Text

As Thanksgiving approaches, Bob has many things to be grateful for: his wife and children, his lovely and cozy home, big fluffy dogs, guitars, yellow daisies, frozen lakes and pretty brown eyes. 

He sees them in his sleep. Long, spiky curtain-like eyelashes and deep brown eyes gazing back at him. Big hands reaching for his body. A shy kiss on the artery of his neck. An orgasm ripping through him. And he wakes up.

As soon as he opens his eyes and the awareness of his body settles, he feels the stiffness of his back. Without hesitation, he pops a pill. The accident barely left any scars, but Bob begins to think this pain will stay with him forever.

In the kitchen, Bob finds Sara speaking on the phone, the furrow on her eyebrow tells him something is wrong. The coffee pot is empty and he wonders where Lupe is.

“She's sick.” Sara tells him after hanging up. “I was on the phone with her, she will not be coming over today or for the next few days until she recovers.” 

A baby cries in the distance and this is what sets off the day. Soon enough, the kitchen is surrounded by hungry kids and not enough hands to feed them. Bob has never cooked pancakes so fast in his life. 

In the middle of feeding the kids, George walks in and Bob stomach flips immediately. His hair is uncombed, he didn't fix it this time, it's like witnessing an unicorn. They meet eyes for a second and it's the same shade of brown Bob saw in his dream. 

“Morning. Could I use your telephone?” George asks, diverting his eyes from Bob to Sara.

“It's in the living room.” Sara says.

George barely acknowledges him before he leaves the room. Bob focuses on flipping a pancake and the image of George’s body over his replays in his mind, his slender fingers fondling him divinely… Bob has never had a man touch him the way he did, it’s beyond drug-induced lust this time, he knows the look on George’s eyes better than his own reflection.

After serving the kids, Bob notices George hasn’t returned and he takes the opportunity to look for him and see him. Oh, how he missed him for the rest of the night after returning back from the lake, his veins burned with adrenaline and lust, he longed to have his body pressed against him for the rest of the night.

But there he is, leaning on the wall talking on the phone, telephone cord twisted around the index finger of his left hand, he touched Bob with said hand as well. This is not the George Bob saw last night, this is a much more preoccupied one, nibbling his bottom lip and occasionally his index finger too.

“Breakfast?” Bob whispers.

George looks up for a fleeting moment. “In a bit.” Bob is sure he didn’t even look at him properly. He swallows. 

Back in the kitchen, Bob pours his tea and waits. 

‘‘We’ve got a problem.’’ Sara says and Bob exhales.

‘‘Now what?’’

‘‘Thanksgiving. Lupe was supposed to do the shopping today but she’s not here, so… It’s up to me and you.’’

Bob rolls his eyes and massages his temples. ‘‘Y’know it’s gonna be hell if we all try to do that. Why don’t I stay with the kids?’’ 

‘‘You sure? It can take me all day…’’

‘‘I won’t be by myself.’’ 

As in cue, George sits down at the table, he ruffles Jesse’s hair. ‘‘You’ll be babysitting today, George.’’ Sara tells him with a smile. ‘‘You and Bobby.’’

George nods and sips on his tea, Bob watches his expression closely and this time, it's unreadable. He can't decipher if he's excited for the idea of spending alone time with Bob (sort of) or terrified about babysitting his children. 

There was never an agreement or a consensus about the state of their relationship but Bob considered George a dear friend, a strictly platonic relationship. But things have changed, for better or for worse. A sense of longing manifests in shaky fingertips and a hot ball inside his chest. And George can't see it at all, his need for him. But what would he think? Would he find it outrageous? Offensive? They crossed a dangerous line last night and Bob wonders what other rules he is willing to break until it all goes to shit.

Sara leaves shortly after breakfast and Bob takes another pill to prevent his back pain from returning anytime soon. He catches George staring.

“I thought you were better.” George says.

“Like I said, it comes and goes.” 

George hums and silent falls upon them. They gaze at each other for a few seconds without saying a word. They're not going to address last night's activities, Bob knows. But he physically can't, he's lost his inability to talk, instead his mind replays the moment George kissed him over and over. And George just stares, like he usually does.

“I'm taking Jesse and Maria outside, is that alright?” George finally says.

Right, the children. “I'm coming with you, I have to pick out the produce.”

With a wheelbarrow and baskets for the kids, Bob heads to his vegetable garden. George pushes Sammy in his stroller and carries Anna in his arms. 

“Wish I could help you but… my hands are full.” George says.

Bob smiles and kneels down on the dirt, rummaging through the leaves. “There's a carrot here Jesse, you think you can pull it?” Jesse comes closer and with Bob's aid, he takes out a large carrot from the ground then places it on the basket. “Good job!” 

“There are bell peppers here!”  Maria says from the other side of the garden. 

George gets to her and Bob hears them talk about picking out the best ones. He continues pulling carrots with Jesse. George returns with Maria holding a basket and Anna holding a bell pepper.

“I think that's enough.” Bob says, smiling at them. George chuckles. “What?”

He shakes his head and looks down. “Nothing. It's good to see you working on your garden.”

Bob beams at him. He thinks he probably looks ridiculous with the blood rushing to his cheeks and the truth is, Bob couldn't have done it without him. Forget about the pills and the doctor's shots, his slow recovery has all been thanks to George's sweet disposition. As his expression soothes, Bob wonders about the reasoning behind his mood earlier this morning. Perhaps he misses home and he feels he has to stay for him.

“You called Pattie this morning right?” Bob takes a wild guess that turns out to be correct when George nods. “Is she okay?” 

“I just wanted to reassure her that I'll be returning after Thanksgiving. She said she's afraid she's lost me to you.” George replies, amused. 

“Impossible.” Bob grins widely. “Is everything alright, though?” 

George pauses, cocking his head, his eyes gliding over Bob's face. Did you say anything to her? Bob means to say with his eyes.

“Yeah, just the usual. I told her I missed her last night.” 

Oh. Bob's heart shouldn't break the way it does. His smile strains. “Right.” He yanks another carrot, the muscles of his shoulder sting and allows it to set in. It's better than focusing on the growing jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn't speak much after that. Instead he concentrates on picking out the produce for Thanksgiving's dinner.  Lastly, his favorite stop is the pumpkin patch where the sweet and pleasant smell invades his nostrils. After picking out a few apples, Maria chooses the pumpkin they'll use for tomorrow's pumpkin pie.

“You must be a wizard by the way kids behave around you. It's crazy, man.” Bob says to George back inside. Maria and Jesse have resorted to playing around while Bob prepares Anna and Sammy's second bottle for the day. “Where did you learn that?”

“Natural charm, I suppose. I'm a Beatle, after all.” George says.

Bob smiles, George is the type of person he can't stay mad at for too long. 

“You have that effect on people.” Bob murmurs. “It's not just a Beatle charm.”

“So I'm charming and hot?” George says, with a sly smile and Bob's heart stops. Yes, he said that, wrapped up in an afterglow haze, and he meant it. Bob blushes.

This is a sign, perhaps a crumb, that George remembers what happened last night fondly and not as some affair that never should've happened. Still, Bob finds himself unable to directly reference it.

He opts for the sardonic route, “A real catch.”

Bob starts feeding Sammy and George offers to feed Anna her bottle as well. Bob hesitates. ‘‘I’ve fed babies before.’’ George says.

If Bob trusts him enough to watch his children, letting him feed his baby won’t hurt. ‘‘Make sure it’s not too hot.’’ 

Unbeknownst to him until now, Bob has opened every door George has knocked on. They started awkwardly glancing at each other, not knowing where to stand next to the other, and now George is feeding his daughter. Every challenge Bob has put him through, he’s mastered. Maybe George was right all along, maybe he just wanted to be a good friend and Bob has finally allowed him to.

❧

A series of strange events occur.

It starts raining heavily, unlike what Bob has seen for November, which would explain the humidity from last night and why Sara calls twenty-five minutes later.

“I'm stuck at Jenny's .” Bob can't recall who Jenny is, probably one of Maria's friend's moms. “ Came here to pick up some thanksgiving recipes and it started raining. Are you guys okay?”

“Fantastic. Don't fret, we're alright.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can. I got the groceries in the back of the car, let's pray the turkey doesn't go bad.” 

“Don't rush, I wouldn't want you to drive in this weather.” 

Lightning strikes and Bob hears the children scream. “Bob! Are they okay?”  

It takes a few minutes to convince her everything is alright. It's true Bob can't quite manage without her, but he doesn't pressure her to come back. Instead, he insists that she should spend more time with her dear friend Jenny (whoever she is). A window flings wide open and George rushes to close it. Bob catches the sight of his brown hair blowing in the misty wind and for a moment, forgets Sara is giving him instructions on what to cook for lunch.

“I'll be alright sweetheart.” He insists. George smiles at him with a thumbs-up after closing the window. Jesse is by his ankle, holding up a paintbrush and trying to get his attention.

“ I love you.” She says and Bob realizes they haven't spent much time apart since they moved here. 

“ You too.”

Thunder strikes again and the line goes dead. Maria runs to him, holding his legs. “Where's mommy?” 

“She's with a friend, she'll be here later.” 

“Jesse wants to paint something.” George says.

Bob has an idea. He brings out a kid's painset and lays white sheets on the floor. They sit on the floor and start painting on the sheets. Bob has Anna between his legs as he aids her to paint clumsy brush strokes on the canvas. This keeps them quiet for a moment with the rain falling heavy on the house, it even distracts them from the sound of thunder.

He looks over at George, who lays on his stomach, his eyebrows closed in concentration as he draws a psychedelic picture. He might have gazed for too long because when he looks us, he finds Maria painting Jesse's face with red paint.

“Hey!” Bob scolds them and Maria jumps, caught in the act and he can't even get upset because Jesse starts to laugh, and Maria chuckles mischievously. “That's not what it is for!”

George joins in with the laughter and Bob represses a smile. Maria has painted a heart on Jesse's face and she's going for the other cheek. 

“You should paint a flower, love.” George tells her. Maria seems to change her mind on Jesse, instead she reaches for George and tests a brush stroke on his cheek. “Oh!”

Maria begins to paint a small red flower on George's cheek when Jesse joins as well with more red paint on his other cheek.

“Alright, that's enough.” Bob tells them. George beams at them with crimson on his cheeks (literally).

“You should paint something, dad! Right, George?” Maria encourages.

Bob feels on the spot thanks to his own child. George scoots over and he makes the situation even more difficult. With no more space left on his face, George offers his naked wrist, where a green vein pops under the thin skin. 

“Go on.” He dares. Bob swallows and dips his brush on yellow paint. He draws a small petal. It's a kid's safe paint, but it does the job on his skin. When he hears George chuckle softly, his heart soars. “It's ticklish.”

Bob draws five more petals on his wrist. He can sense George's peaceful breathing, he can even determine the smell of his laundry detergent and the lingering cigarette smoke on his clothes. Bob adds green to the leaves. He draws a vine that almost reaches to half of his forearm. He paints one more flower, another marguerite daisy. 

“That's cute.” George whispers, his voice deep and rich. Bob bites his lip. 

He can feel his children staring, ignorant to the beating of his heart and the fluttering in his stomach. But he's sure George can see everything with those keen eyes, every emotion unraveling under skin and muscle and cells.

“Wow!” Maria exclaims when Bob is done.

George smiles. “I should sell my arm, I'll make millions of it!” 

Bob laughs, dropping the brush. Anna gets a hold of it and starts shaking it around, plastering paint all over them. Distracted by his daughter's mess, Bob doesn't realize when Jesse sneaks over to him and strokes his cheek with the brush.

“Jesse!” He exclaims and Jesse laughs. His cheek feels wet and sticky and when he checks, he realizes he's painted blue. Not really far from the true estate of his soul.

“Blue! I love blue!” Jesse says. Bob can't really say the same. 

George laughs and Bob shakes his head. “Alright, time for lunch and a nap!” 

The rain becomes even more violent as the day progresses. The land outside the house is muddy and the clouds in the sky created a fluffy and gray blanket over them. Similar to the one Bob splays out on chairs for the kids to create a forte.

“To protect us from thunder.” He says.

With pillows on the floor, they lay down under the forte. He gives each one of them a bottle, except Maria who sucks on her thumb with sleepy eyes. George joins them too with a guitar. He sits cross legged and plucks a lullaby, humming quietly to soothe the kids. Bob even starts to feel like dozing off with the rain creating a cozy atmosphere inside the room. Minutes later, they are all fast asleep with their bellies full. 

As he returns Sammy and Anna to their cribs, he offers George some lunch which he gladly accepts. 

“Wait, you got any weed left?” George asks when they leave the room. Now that the children are asleep, that sounds like a better idea.

With a flick of his thumb, George sparks a joint and Bob pours elbow macaroni pasta in boiling water. Bob catches a glance of his wrist, the yellow flowers adorning his skin.

“You like mac and cheese?” 

George nods, his cheeks hollowing around the tip.  “Ta, mate.” 

Their fingertips brush when George passes him the joint. Bob takes a big hit as George blows the smoke away from his face. “Not very British, I suppose.”

George smirks, his eyes darting towards the tree branches assaulting the window pane. Bob realizes his face is still painted red which means he's still painted blue. He chortles. “What?” George says, turning back to him but Bob shakes his head.

“Nothing. It's funny how good you are with kids and you have none of your own.” Bob gives him back the joint as he stirs the macaroni.

“I think your kids like me, but for the wrong reasons.” 

Bob frowns his eyebrows but then smiles at the ridiculous affirmation. “Huh? How so?”

George's luscious lips close around the joint once more and Bob can't stop staring. He looks away when the steam of the pot burns his hand.

“Well, that day the doctor came in, they were screaming like crazy and I started singing your songs…” He pauses and Bob raises his eyebrows. “...with your voice.”

Bob scoffs a laugh. “You were mocking me?”

George grimaces, flustered. “Uh… not mocking you exactly, I was impersonating you. It worked though.” 

Bob finds the situation amusing and endearing. “You betrayed me, George. You fuckin' traitor. I should kick you out.” 

“You wouldn't.” 

“Unless I hear that impression of yours. C'mon, how do I sound?” Bob teases, his tongue against his cheek.

George shakes his head, holding the joint between his fingers. “No fuckin' way, man. That's reserved for your kids.” 

“Oh come on, man…” George closes an imaginary zip on his lips and Bob rolls his eyes theatrically.

Bob preps their food, passing the joint back and forth between them. His eyes start to burn and the faint stiffness of his back soothes. When he asks George to pass him a spoon and he comes back with a fork, which sends them into a fit of giggles, Bob knows they are high enough.

By the time they sit down to eat, his appetite has grown and he feels like eating the entire pot by himself. 

“How is it?” Bob asks George.

“It's great, mate. I could eat the whole pot.” 

Bob cooked enough for them and a plus one. They eat their food in silence, both too high to speak, by the time they're finished, they exchange looks and reach for the pot. They finish the whole thing in a couple minutes. 

With the afternoon wearing down on him and the effects of the marijuana, Bob wants to take a nap. George offers to wash the dishes and by the time they finish cleaning the kitchen, Bob can barely keep his eyes open, the rain working as a calming white noise that only feeds his lethargy.

“Where are you going?” Bob asks George who has just started walking towards the room he is staying at. “Come with me.”

They enter the master bedroom where the children are still asleep under the forte at the end of the bed. Bob gestures George to come with him to bed and he hesitates, until he eventually kicks his boots. Bob undoes the fly digging on his full belly and lays downs with a groan. As a kid, he always wondered why old people moaned when they sat down or laid flat. And now with a fucked up spine and a rigid neck, he understands. 

George eventually finds a spot next to him, his body stiff and tense. Bob turns over to look at him.

“Just relax, I bet you need a nap too.” Bob whispers to avoid waking up to the kids.

“What if Sara comes back?” George questions, leery.

“She won't be back until it stops raining cats and dogs. She's a careful driver, even more so after… y'know.”

George breathes out, he has been seemingly holding his breath, then he asks, “How bad was it?” 

Bob wants to laugh, George has a way of asking the most strange questions out of the blue . How bad was it? Well, he knows, he saw the painting hidden in his art room the very first day, he heard him moan in pain like a dying man.

“What do you mean by that?” 

George turns to him, tucking his hands under his cheek, looking straight at him. Lightning strikes when Bob meets his eyes. The kids remain still.

“I wanna know how bad it really was.” George replies relentlessly.

Why does he want to know the gory and angsty details of his accident? Is it to feed some sick fetish? Or is it just pure curiosity? Perhaps a way of finagling more feelings out of him? Except he knows George probably doesn't mean bad.

Bob clears his throat. “Well, I fucked up my back, broke my neck, sprained my left wrist and I think I also busted my head open. I dunno, it was all a blur, even when I was at home after being dismissed.”

“They said you lied, that it was all an excuse to not tour again.” 

It's not the first time Bob's heard such fallacy. “They say all kinds of things…”

“But there was no ambulance at the scene, no news, no nothing… I didn't find out until John told me because someone from The Band told him. ”

“Was it Robbie?” Bob scratches the stubble of his beard and George shrugs, indifferent. He just wants to know the truth, Bob realizes. “Well… if you must know… it's true, there was no ambulance. I was carried to the emergency room by a bystander, he fuckin' dragged me to his car and drove me there. And the reason why it wasn't in the news was because he never said who I was when they took me in. Of course he knew, but he played dumb. They only found out when I woke up and Sara and Albert showed up. By that point, it was confidential within hospital grounds.”

George purses his lips and Bob waits for an answer. “I'm sorry” he mutters, “for doubting you.”

“It's alright, man. No hard feelings. I know I haven't been an open book so I understand.” Bob pauses and bites the dry skin off his lips. “But it's partially true what they said— about me not wanting to continue the tour. It was fuckin' awful, man. I felt like I was going to die at some point and the accident was a wake up call. By that point I had Sara and Maria, and Jesse on the way. I couldn't leave them alone… if you think about it, it's the best thing that's happened, because now I have this.” He gestures, raising his hand. 

“Would you ever play again?”

Bob knows it's not just a matter of touring or playing live, what George means, it's a matter of playing at all . 

“Maybe, I don't know.” Bob yawns. “What about you? Would you go back there? To that sea of screaming girls?” 

“Over my dead body.” Bob raises his eyebrows with a smug smirk and George sighs. It's good that he knows now that they're not so different from each other.  “To be fair I never stopped playing music. I don't think I ever will. I'll be ninety-seven with bony fingertips just writing nonsense for my grandkids to hear.”

“Amen.” Bob smiles. It's the future George deserves.  “But it's good to take a break, though, sometimes we need a break. Whether it's a lucky break , a vacation , someone to break you or just breaking free .”

“Which one do you need?”

“All of the above.”

George chuckles and Bob closes his eyes, unable to continue fighting his drowsiness. A finger plays with a curl on his head and Bob smiles to himself. George wraps the short strand around his index finger then drops his hand. Bob holds in his breath for a moment, expecting another of George's gestures but it doesn't come. Instead, he opens one of his eyes and notices George has fallen asleep. He follows shortly after.

Bob dreams he shrinks. He shrinks into the size of an ant, small enough to fall into kid's paint, blue one at that. He struggles to get out, his feet are slippery and his hands are oily from the paint. Eventually, he gives up, his body too tired to keep fighting, so he swims. He dives into the blue paint as if he was at a hotel pool in the middle of summer. His skin is stained now, there's even blue under his nails. But he doesn't care, he swims and floats and gets used to it, until he doesn't and the enclosure starts suffocating him. He feels lonely and trapped and struggles to break free. He hears distant calling, a woman constantly calling his name, he recognizes her as Sara. When he's about to scream, he wakes up.

“Bob!” 

He jolts awake and sees Sara's figure looking down at him with her hands on his shoulder, shaking him. He blinks and rubs his eyes, next to him, George's sleep is interrupted and he wakes up with a groan.

“What have you been up to?” She asks, rather disturbed. “Why are you guys painted blue and red?”

“Jesse.” Bob mutters and yawns. He sits on the bed and stretches, while Sara glances back and forth between George and him.

Awkward.

“Uh— I'm gonna take a shower…” George announces, voice groggy.

“Right.” Sara says with an overstrung smile. Bob understands this looks bad, especially with his fly open. “Thank you though, for looking after the kids.”

“Anytime.” It's the last thing George says before he leaves the room. Bob doesn't dare to look at him.

“What time is it?” Bob asks, he scratches his cheek and dry blue paint comes off in flakes.

“It's three. How did you get the children to nap?” 

“George. He sang to them, he has them under a spell.” 

“Yeah, he does. ” Sara says in a way that lets him know she means they're not the only ones under George's spell.

Bob clears his throat. It's odd, he is aware. But he doesn't feel like he has to reassure her he didn't have sex with George on their bed, that would open another whole can of worms. 

“So… How's Jenny?”

❧

Bob doesn't see much of George for the rest of the afternoon. It amazes him how, even in his own house, George finds a way to sneak past him and avoid him. Either way, Bob can't do much about it, especially not since he feels Sara's eyes on him attempting to pry something out of him. It's like she knows something he doesn't.

After scrubbing the paint off his body in the shower, Sara sentences him to kitchen duties as they prepare as much as they can for tomorrow. With a long day behind him, Bob is glad to retrieve back to his art room when night falls. Much needed solitude. But what he finds there is not something he expected to see.

George stands in the middle of the room, inspecting his unfinished canvas closely, hands behind his back, as if this was an art gallery and Bob's painting was the most intriguing of them all.

“It's not finished.” Bob says although it's obvious.

“Yeah, it's beautiful, though.”

“Uh… Ta .” Bob says and George turns to him with a smile. “Is that how you guys say? I love the way you say it. There's something about your accent.”

“Scouse. That's how it is called.”

Bob shoves his hands inside his jeans. “It's cute on you, it suits you.” He says, not knowing what he's getting at. Bob really can't go a minute without flirting with him, he realizes.

George simply looks down with a grin and lights up a cigarette. Bob gets to work and continues painting his canvas. He senses George hanging around, scanning the room with curiosity, fumbling with his brushes, picking up canvases, sniffing paint. 

Then, Bob feels the urge to ask him something he's rarely asked before. “What's your favorite color, man?”

“Purple, yours?”

“I don't have one.”

George scoffs. “Bollocks.”

“I don't. I've never paid attention to colors enough, and then when I started painting I realized all of them are special to me.” Bob keeps on painting and George smokes silently. “So… purple .” 

“Yeah, it's regal and just so… groovy, y'know.”

“Purple is a combination of red and blue.”

Bob hears him snicker. “Yeah, I am aware. I went to school.” Bob doesn't say anything else. He focuses on the foliage of his autumn scene. However, George speaks again, “did Sara tell you anything?”

“Like…?”

“Like as to why we were in your bed.”

Now is Bob's turn to snicker. “It's not like we did anything. Besides, it'd be a bit strange if she had to ask me if I fucked my male friend.”

“But we did. I mean, we fucked. ” George says.

Bob bites his lip. “No we didn't. We just gave each other hand jobs, that's not fucking.” He tries to play it off as mutual masturbation for George who seems rather freaked out about it.

Except he sighs. “Christ, Bob. We— That's sex, y'know. I don't wanna get so technical but it is sex .”

“Okay, well… Yes, it is sex. So?”

There's a beat. George huffs a laugh, sounding hurt. “ So ? Really?“ George exclaims then hums to himself and very quietly says, “I thought you liked me.” 

Bob drops his brush at the same time his heart falls into the pit of his stomach. “I do like you.” 

“Why are you pushing me away again, then? Why are you acting as if it meant nothing?”

Hold on a minute…

“Wait, George, man… Have I been the one doing so? Really?” Bob genuinely asks, turning around to face him and George nods. “I wasn't the one giving you the cold shoulder this morning.”

“Oh, come on, mate, that's not fair. Sara was right there!”

“Well, mate , you could've been nicer to me!” Bob throws his hands in the air. “And— and… your wife , who you missed so much last night, yes I bet you did.” Bob is aware how crazy he sounds, spitting all of his pettiness back at George. Jealousy and exasperation shouldn't mix. 

“I didn't think you would care.” George crosses his arms, thick eyebrows close together. “I thought you wanted me to act as if it was nothing, y'know, for the sake of our families.” 

Bob breathes out. They are both so fucking stupid.

“It did mean something.” Bob whispers, gazing at him. He's always hated eye contact, but it's easier this time, it's always easier with George. “It meant everything .” 

The room feels as if it closes on them, with George on one corner and Bob in the other. It's only a matter of time before they meet in the middle with an ardent kiss, hands all over each other. Kissing a man is different, Bob notices, there's a forceful nature to it, like a bomb finally exploding.

George grabs his face, he doesn't cup , he grabs him , like a rag doll and it turns his limbs into jelly. His hands are on each side of his face and his tongue enters his mouth without warning, almost violating but Bob complies, he opens his mouth wider to take him in while his hands are busy gripping the waist of his sweater. Bob pushes him, directs him to the edge of his working table and fumbles with the fly of his jeans. George stops for a moment to look at him, and Bob sees the fire behind his eyes, burning red with lust and he's blue, drowning in sadness and melancholy, and George is the only one who could set his sea ablaze. 

When Bob finally pulls down his zipper, he sits on his knees and shuffles his pants down. George's arousal is intoxicating when he reveals his hardened cock. Bob sucks him off right away, hungry for it. A hand buries in his hair, tugging it slightly, guiding his movements. George groans and sighs, and he tastes delicious in Bob's mouth. He never thought he'd enjoy sucking cock this much. Bob wants to take him all in, have him all the way down to his throat but the hand in his hair pulls him away. 

“Come here.” Bob stands up and George kisses him again, this time slowly. He runs his tongue over his lips and Bob squirms, he's aching inside his pants. “Have you ever been fucked? Like, properly fucked?”

Bob's stomach drops. George's alluring eyes weigh on him and Bob feels his throat close. “No, no. I haven't.” He says, sounding like a stupid virgin.

George traces his lips with his thumb. He is in total control now. “Can I fuck you?”  

Bob blinks. He didn't know how bad he wanted it until George brought it up. “Yeah, you can.” 

“You got any lube?” Bob looks around, there's a wooden tool box on a stool, he gets to it and brings out a small bottle, then hands it to George. “What's this?” 

“Coconut oil… it's all natural. I use it to remove paint stains from my clothes before washing them.” 

George smiles, he opens the bottle and takes a whiff. “Nice.”

Bob brings their lips back together, then speaks, voice shaky with excitement, “Where do you want me?”

“Table.”

Bob clears the table swiftly and lays on it. It's hard and cold against his clothed back, and for a moment fears it might be damaging for his spine. However, George picks up on this. He flips him on his stomach, feet planted on the floor, his waist bent on the edge with his chest flat on the table.

“Is this good?” George asks him, palm on his back. 

“Yeah…” Bob replies, breathless. His dick strains against his pants.

George's hands are on his trousers, setting the fly open and pushing them down. He runs his palm flat against the column of Bob's cock over his underwear. He hisses, his cheek is sticky with condensation and glued to the table. When George releases him, he lets out a shameless moan. He feels sensitive, foreplay never fails to send him over the edge and he believes he might come too soon by George slowly pumping him up from behind.

It's only a matter of time before George hands are on his bottom, fingers slick with coconut oil, tracing circles around the ring of muscle. Bob tenses up but George sinks his fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp and mumbling sweet nothings. He enters one finger and it's not as bad as Bob expected. 

For someone that hasn't been with men before, George surely knows how to touch him, how to pump his finger carefully and when Bob feels a sudden shock across his body resembling an electrical wave, he realizes George has found the spot.

“Oh God, there.” Bob mumbles. “How did you—”

George chuckles, equally surprised. “I dunno… Another one?”

Bob nods and another finger grazes the spot inside him. He contorts with pleasure and he believes his cock might explode at any point. He needs George to get inside him, badly.

“Georgie, c'mon man…” He demands, voice desperate and broken.

“You're ready?” He asks. Bob wishes he would stop treating him like a glass doll.

“Fuck, yes!” 

George enters him slowly, with hands on his hips and Bob arches his back when he feels the delicious stretch, seeking for that previous sensation inside him. He knows George is not fully in, he can feel a void inside him, perhaps he's scared to hurt him but Bob wants it, he yearns to be bruised by him, it's the only time when his pain would become pleasure. 

“You good?” George asks, out of breath.

“More, please.” Bob can tell George is reluctant, either way he listens, and fucks him deep and steady. 

Soon enough, Bob is a moaning mess under him, with George's hips sending white flashes of dopamine down his body. George kisses his clothed shoulder and he wishes he had taken his shirt off before to feel his lips on his naked skin. But it's too late now, he can't move, his knees grow weaker with every stroke. George finds his hair anew and uses a grip on his strands as leverage to fuck him faster. George leans over and touches him, jerks him off and Bob sees stars. He wants him to come undone.

“Fuck, Georgie.” 

George huffs and puffs over him, he kisses the side of his face sloppily and finds a perfect rhythm between his hand and his hips. Bob comes with a drowned out moan into George's hand. He releases him but he keeps on fucking him, gathering speed and running after his own orgasm. Bob's body is limp with aftershocks as George thrusts and thrusts until he slows down and pulls out, a warm and damp sensation settles on the skin of his buttocks.

They gather themselves, George wipes the come off his skin with one of Bob's painting rags, then brings a stool over to sit with him. Bob sits on the table, breathing ragged, head spinning. George lights up two cigarettes, places one between his lips for him and cups his face affectionately.

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?” George asks, sweetly.

It doesn't matter. It was amazing. “No.” 

They smoke in silence, taking it all in. George's skin glistens with sweat and Bob's heart feels heavy with fondness.

“Y'know…” George starts. “I wrote something.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, but I can't finish it. Would you help me?”

He was blue, and George was fiery red. And because he touched him and now he feels purple, bruised by his love, he says, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

George unfolds the piece of paper carefully, feeling rather self-conscious. One thing is to send Bob lyrics to his songs on letter, another thing is watching him read them in real time. 

They're sitting in Bob's living room. The house is quiet, with Sara and the children resting. The fireplace is on and light drops of rain stain the windows. Bob has a spliff between his fingers as he reads the lyrics George scribbled down, eyebrows drawn in concentration. They're still wrapped in the afterglow with their knees touching and George's hand on his thigh, thumbing the skin over his jeans.

“What do you think?” George asks.

“It has potential. Show me the arrangement.”

George takes a deep breath and starts playing the song, he messes up at the beginning, fingers shaky but he picks it back up. Bob smiles tenderly, eyes fixed on his hands. 

“You've got big nice hands.” George remembers he'd said and he smiles to himself, blushing.

George hums the lyrics, still not confident enough about the verses to sing them out loud. 

“You get me?” George asks, continuing to play. Bob joins in, he rocks back and forth, as if the music is carrying him, possessing him to sing with George. It's the first time George hears his singing voice since he got here and it's like a present, like a handmade gift he was waiting to open all of this time.

George cuts the music abruptly when Bob adds a vague set of lyrics. “Wait, write that down… I like that… Uh— do you wanna play?” He asks, eager, barely able to contain his excitement.

Bob smiles. “Come with me, I wanna show you something.”

George thought Bob would lead him to another room but when they find themselves outside the home in the freezing rain, George believes they might go for a ride again. “Uh, I don't feel like swimming tonight, man.” 

Bob chuckles and George follows his footsteps in the dark. “Just wait and see.” 

Meters away from the main house, there's a small cottage. George noticed it the very first day but didn't pay much attention to it, regarding it as an unused guest house or a dusty storage room. Bob takes out a set of keys from his pocket and opens the door. It's so dark inside George believes he might have stepped into a black hole, but he sees stars when Bob turns on the lights.

In this little unassuming cottage is Bob's music room surrounded by instruments, awards and records. George had wondered where Bob was storing all of his instruments. He imagined a closet with cow webs hanging from the ceiling. Turns out, they were hidden in plain sight, sleeping soundly in the dark like cozy cats and now Bob is finally waking them up, letting the light in to play with them once again.

“Sit wherever.” Bob tells him as he picks up one of his guitars for tuning.

“Need some help?”  

Bob draws a shy smirk and shakes his head. “I still know how to do it.” 

George clears his throat and the grip on the neck of his guitar tightens. “Right.” 

It takes everything in George to not look around, amazed.

“Okay, how did it go?” Bob asks. George shows him the placement of his fingers on the fretboard and luckily, Bob picks it up in an instant. “You wanna record it?”

Bob brings out a tape recorder for him

“Thanks.” He presses the button.

“Alright… ready?” 

“One, two, three…”

They start playing in unison, sitting on stools, gazing at each other. George's eyes divert to his mouth, to the way the stubble of his beard grows on his jaw. If he wasn't delighted by his singing he would be pinning him against a wall and kissing him until their lips bled.

Bob surprises him when he sings his new set of lyrics. “All I have is yours….” George smiles, it's great. He follows along, then Bob sings .

“All that I can say is not enough 

It comforts me to know that we're so much in love.”

The lyrics tug George's heartstrings.

They write down more lyrics with new words, they sing them and play different chords until George feels he has a solid spine to start producing the master. He knew it'd be like this, he knew Bob would inspire him. When has he failed to, though?

After they are done and pass the spliff back and forth sitting on a small couch, George dares to ask him, “Why aren't you writing if you got all of this?”

“I tried.” 

They've never had the moment to hold each other after sex, so George scoots closer and wraps his arm around Bob's shoulder. “No inspiration?”

Bob sighs and before George knows it, his head is on his shoulder. “Everything I wrote was filled with sorrow, it disgusted me.” 

“Is that bad?”

Bob laughs softly, “You trying to play therapist with me, man?” George joins in and shakes his head. “Well, it's not bad but it wasn't the kind of sorrow people are interested in. It's funny, y'know, when you're famous, everyone is watching you, waiting to see how you're gonna break yourself again for them. Every broken piece means a show to them— a tune, a poem, an album— they're not just creations , they're pieces of yourself. My pieces were big and blood stained, not one is interested in that kind of sadness.”

George understands, however, he doesn't quite see it that way.

“Maybe they're not ready for it because they haven't experienced it yet. How could you be so sure? You don't miss what you don't know, y'know. All I'm saying is, you have to show them… I promise there are people who'd love to see those parts of you, no matter how brutal they are.” 

Bob hums, George can sense he's thinking about it. If only he knew George is willing to care for his broken parts. Bob's hand travels towards George's and he takes it, plays with his fingertips, caresses his knuckles.

He starts singing the song they just played and reaches for the paper and pen. “Let me in here… 

Let me into your heart.”

George blushes and hopes he fails to realize his inspiration for the song. Bob chews on the back of the pencil and George is mesmerized, he can almost see the gears turning inside his head as he reads the lyrics and whispers to himself.

“What's on your mind?” George asks him.

“I think I got a better chorus.” 

With that, they pick up the guitars once again and start from the top. “ All I have is yours

All you see is mine

And I'm glad to hold you in my arms…”

George smiles, “That's great, Bob, thank you…”

“Can you do me a favor, George?” 

“Yeah?”

“Keep it to yourself, the song. It's yours, don't give it to The Beatles, they won't appreciate it.”

George nods, another song going into the pile of unreleased tracks.

“Sure.” George sighs. “One day I'll put it on a LP.”

“But you can do whatever you want, really. It's yours. You can even discard my lyrics if you like, it doesn't matter—”

George kisses him to get him to shut up. Not in a million years he'd change the lyrics that he wrote. George cups his cheek, moves his lips over his and it feels good to be like this, to be able to act on his impulses. Bob caresses the hair on the back of his neck and George feels hard in his pants again. He swears he could fuck him all night if he was allowed to.

George squeezes Bob's thigh and he groans, “Fuck, man. I'm all worked up again.”

Perfect . George's hand travels towards his crotch and palms it, Bob hisses on his mouth. Moments later, George has Bob's cock in his hand, pumping him slowly, then he kneels on the floor between his legs and takes him in his mouth with care, closing his lips around the tip and sucking. Bob gasps quietly, his fingers rake George's locks as George continues to lick him. 

When he finishes and George spits on a trashcan, Bob stares at him, with glossy eyes as tucks himself back in. George is hard inside his trousers but something stops him to ask to be touched. Instead, he continues holding Bob and buries his face in his curls, a gesture he's always felt the impulse to do.

Bob chuckles. “Oh, man. What am I gonna do now?” He says.

“Huh?”

“What am I gonna do now that I can't get enough of you? How am I gonna act right in front of Sara?”

George's heart sinks. For a few seconds, he was living in a world where it was just the two of them— all the people gone, along with their reputations and their obligations as husbands.

Faced with reality, George says, “Don't worry about it, I'm nothing next to her.”

She's still his wife, no matter how many times George sucks him off or fucks him on the table, Bob is forever tied to her. Just like he is tied to Pattie.

“I know but— I mean…” Bob stutters then pauses, “Nevermind. Want me to return the favor?”

George exhales and nods. When Bob wraps his lips around his cock, George forgets about the rest of the world once again.

❧

George wakes up in a cold sweat when a violent wind opens the bedroom window. He stands up to close it and thinks of returning back to sleep but when he checks the hour, he realizes he might as well be up. His guitar rests against the chair and it all comes back to him: Bob wrote a song with him. George faces the world with that in mind, during breakfast, he starts revisiting the song in his head, he barely pays mind to the crying babies at the table.

When Bob leaves the kitchen to change Anna, Sara takes the opportunity to talk to him one on one. George holds his breath. They had an awkward encounter, George laying on her bed with Bob. Although nothing happened, George is not sure how Sara feels about it.

“You wrote a song with Bob, right?” Sara whispers with a smile. It takes him out of guard. “Don't give me that look, he told me.”

“Uh, yeah… it's almost finished.” 

Sara smiles even wider. “That is great, George. Wow, what did you do? How did you even— Listen, I'm not gonna question your method but thank you… this is a step, a huge one.”

George gives her a tiny smile. He's sure she's only pleased because he fulfilled her wish of getting Bob to write, not on the fact that he's sleeping with her husband. 

“He seems much better now that you're here, honestly”, Sara continues. “It's a shame to see you go.”

Right . He's supposed to be leaving tomorrow. He had been wrapped up in a haze that he forgot he had a life outside of Woodstock.

“What are you two whispering about?” Bob comes back with Anna in his arms, wearing a smile, he puts her back on the highchair and turns to George, “Come with me, there's something you need to see.”

“Hey, where are you going? There's still a lot of food to cook!” Sara says.

“I know, but we'll be right back, okay?” Bob pleads and Sara rolls her eyes. She's not pleased but Bob pulls George by the sleeve of his jumper and they sneak out through the kitchen door.

The morning is misty and windy, clouds settle on the sky like a thick gray blanket.

“Where are we going?” George asks as he follows Bob up the hill. 

He doesn't answer, George follows regardless and they get to the stable where Bob pushes him inside against the wall and kisses him holding his neck.

“Good morning, Georgie.” Bob whispers onto his lips and continues kissing him intensely.

“What's gotten into ye?” George questions with a smile after they separate. Bob's eyes are brighter than the sky today.

Bob shrugs, he blushes like a teenage boy. He clears his throat and takes a step back, petting one of the horses. “Wanna go for a ride?”

It's almost comical, the nonchalant front he wants to put up.

“What about your back?”

Bob kisses his teeth. “Goddammit.”

George sticks his tongue inside his cheek. He sees right through Bob's intentions. “You didn't really call me to go on a ride, did you?”

Bob looks down, then smirks, staring at him through the curtain of his eyelashes. “Not really… But it also depends on what kind of ride you're referring to.”

George's stomach swoops, he steps forward and thumbs his chin, raising his face to look at him in the eyes. George envelops their lips, a light and modest touch on the lips.

“It's such a shame you're leaving.” Bob says against his mouth, “I can't let you go.”

“Sara wouldn't like that…”

“She doesn't have to know.” Bob inserts his tongue inside George's mouth and he welcomes it gladly. Bob groans when George squeezes his waist and grinds his hips against his. “I need to visit England soon, maybe I could stay with you.”

“Just you?” George separates for a moment to look at his face, his hand travels from his waist to the small of his back.

Bob rolls his eyes. “Well, we . Maybe we could write another song together.”

George chuckles, “I loved writing with you, Bobby.”

“Really?”

George cups his face, it's saddening that he doesn't see how great he is. “Yes, thank you.”

“I'm glad. For a while it seemed like I broke everything I touched. I'm just happy I didn't damage this .” Bob smirks, coyly, “It's nothing man. I'd do it anytime.”

A light bulb goes off in his head. I'd do it anytime . Bob recognizes George's expression and his smile widens.

George grabs his hand and they exit the stable together, separating once they get closer to the main house. It feels good to be known so well, to be recognized and acknowledged like this. When Bob and George pick up their guitars, they gaze at one another and they have an understanding, an unbreakable bond. It's all George has ever wanted.

❧

Thanksgiving dinner turns out to be delightful. Sara and Bob are pleasant hosts, feeding George seconds and thirds every time they see his plate empty. Luckily the wine serves as a fine digestive. By the end, the kids are excited for dessert: pumpkin pie, but George is stuffed as a turkey, he can't eat any more.

“Just a tiny piece, George!” Maria insists, sitting on her knees on the chair and leaning towards him. She cuts a piece of her own pie and stretches her arm. 

George hesitates but he takes a bite and it's delicious, sweet with a hint of cinnamon. But he can eat no more.

“Oh that's it, I'm about to burst.” 

Bob beams at him and George would stare at his shining smile longer if it wasn't for the presence of his family on the table.

Right after the late dinner, Sara and Bob put the babies to sleep, while Maria and Jesse run around the living room. Sara turns on the radio and the house fills with the sweet sound of music. George lights up a cigarette and sits on the couch, he extends his legs and Maria jumps over them to get away from Jesse chasing her.

“Stop running, you two.” Sara tells them.

Jesse erupts in laughter and Maria cackles, screaming when Jesse gets too close.

Soon, the station changes and Cass Elliott's powerful voice makes an appearance, hypnotizing everyone in the living room. 

“Oh, I love this song!” Sara exclaims. “We got her record, don't we Bobby?”

Bob, slightly wine drunk, grabs Sara by the waist once the song breaks into the chorus. Bob and Sara begin to sway in a sleepy and drunk dance. George stares at them through curtains of smoke. When Bob turns towards him, his hand flat against Sara's spine, face peeking over her shoulder, he shoots him a wink. Cass's voice and the indigo of his eyes give him goosebumps but his chest swells with melancholy. A secret moment in a crowded room. All of this unbeknownst to his wife, the woman he is holding in his arms. 

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear

Still craving your kiss

I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear

Just saying this

The song ends with a bang. A literal bang with Jesse falling on the floor and howling. Sara rushes to his aid, picking him up.

“Is he okay?” George asks.

Jesse hides in his mother's neck, crying his eyes out. “He's fine, just tired. Time for bed, I guess?” She turns to Bob, disappointed that her night ended so soon.

“No!” Maria takes off and runs to the other side of the room.

Sara gives Bob the eyes, which George only assumes it means she wants him to deal with Maria. “Good night, George.” George waves at her as she leaves the room with Jesse.

“Alright Maria, time for bed.” Bob announces but she's nowhere to be found. “Where did she go?”

George shrugs and now with the two of them alone in the living room, the tension rises. George reaches over and pokes Bob's hand with his pinky finger to get his attention. Bob looks around and hooks his pinky with George's. The gesture leaves George breathless. 

“Maria, don't make me count to three!” Bob exclaims. Still nothing. “See you later?” He looks down at George.

“Yeah…”

The kitchen door is slammed shut. Bob and George follow the noise outside, and in the dark, they get a glimpse of a small figure walking outside in the cold.

“Maria!” Bob calls for her.

Maria keeps on running, heading towards Bob's musical cottage. The night sky is dark gray, stars hidden by a thick layer of clouds, moonlight barely seeping through. Maria holds on to the cottage door and before she can open it, Bob picks her up. She laughs but his expression is far from amused.

“You're in trouble, young lady.” He tells her. “I'm gonna put this one to bed. Wait for me here? It's open.” And even in the darkness of the night, Bob's eyes shine bright. George says yes.

He gets comfortable inside the cottage. It's warm and lit up. After smoking a cigarette, Bob is still not coming and George gets bored so he starts snooping around, inspecting the shelves and the instruments closely. A shelf full of books gets his attention, and more specifically, a copy of Jack Kerouac's On The Road, one of Bob's favorite books. George has never read it before, so he picks it up and sits down to read it. He opens it and a set of notes fall onto his lap. Upon close inspection, he notices they are scrapped lyrics written in pen, words scratched over with anger and replaced with synonyms. George wonders if these are the lyrics Bob was referring to.

These are far from bad, George considers. They are choppy and incomplete but they could work. He thinks he owes it to Bobby— if he helped him with his own song, perhaps George can lend a hand as well. George sits with his guitar and sings the lyrics, he follows the chords written down and starts to play. The door opens and the floors creak under Bob's steps.

“Sorry about that, the sugar got them hyper.” He says, then abruptly stops. “What are you doing?”

George grins and waves the piece of paper. “I found your songs, you wanna work on them? I know you said they were bad but they aren't— These are good… I can help you arrange something.” 

There's something wrong. Bob is not smiling, instead, he stands wide-eyed, stuck in place. 

George swallows. “Everything alright?” 

“Where did you find that?” Bob asks, his eyes scan George's lap, where Jack Kerouac's book lays, then they dart towards the shelf.

“Uh… Inside the book, I wanted to read something and the lyrics fell out of it.”

“You were snooping around?” Bob asks, eyebrows raised.

“Not necessarily. I was just looking for something to do while I waited.”

Bob walks towards him and snatches the pieces of paper away. “So you were snooping.” Bob frowns and George starts to fear he might have upset him. “What were you doing with these?”

“I was trying to play them, I thought you might want my help to finish them y'know, like you helped me.”

“Well you thought wrong.” Bob shoves the notes inside his back pocket. “What makes you think you can just grab my stuff and play it, man? That shit's personal…”

“I just wanted to help… I—” George stammers.

“Not everyone needs or wants your help, George! For God's sake, I never wanted your fuckin' help, I certainly don't need it now.”

There's silence. Bob's voice echoes in the cabin. George brushes the hair out of his face, not quite believing what he's hearing. He feels the urge to throw up but he swallows the nausea down.

“Bobby, I—”

“C'mon, man, what else do you want from me? You sneak into my life, live with my family, sleep in my bed, get into my pants and now you wanna get your hands in my music too?”

George can't speak, the words are stuck inside his throat. He stares at Bob, befuddled. He grips the neck of his guitar, the pain of the strings against his palms keep him grounded.  Outside, thunder strikes and a tee branch crashes against the window. However the storm has already started inside, his heart whirls and shatters against the walls of his chest and Bob can't see it nor hear it. Everything is wrong.

“You're selfish, Bob.” It's all George manages to say without breaking down.

“I'm selfish? Oh, alright, I'm the bad guy now.” Bob exhales, rubbing his temples. “This was a mistake, bringing you here, allowing you in.”

George furrows his eyebrows and the tears form in his eyes. “Don't worry, I'm leaving.”

George brushes his shoulder when he walks out. Bob follows behind him, catching up to George's quick steps.

“Are you leaving? Are you really walking out?” 

“What do you want from me , Dylan? Huh? What is it? If I try to be your friend, it's a problem, if I try to help, it's a problem. You're never satisfied! No wonder you're so miserable.” George exclaims, walking ahead. He opens the kitchen door and darts towards the guest room to pack his luggage.

“Oh, you got what you wanted out of me, that's why you're leaving.” Bob continues following him into the room.

The only thing George wanted from Bob wasn't material or tangible. He starts to believe what he was searching for was never there in the first place. It was all an illusion.

“You don't want me here, you never did, so why does it matter?” George says, unable to look at him. He shoves everything he can into his suitcase without much care. Tears cloud his eyes.

“Why did you stay so long then?” 

George grits his teeth. There's no way someone can be this daft. He closes the suitcase forcefully. He turns his back towards Bob and cleans his eyes out of his sight. He walks past him and Bob chases him anew, this time, they encounter Sara in the hallway in her night robe, arms crossed. 

“What the hell is going on?” Bob and George stop in their tracks with Sara's accusative eyes on them.

George steps forward and kisses her cheek. “I'm sorry, I have to go. Thank you for everything.”

“Already? But it's the middle of the night.” Sara gets a hold of his arms. “Is Pattie alright? Are you okay?” 

No, your husband just killed me.

“Yeah… I just… I have to go. Give the kids a hug from me, please.”

George breaks free and walks to the door. “George!” Sara calls for him and this time, he turns but he doesn't see her, his eyes don't even register her figure, instead they gaze directly at Bob. He stands behind her, lips pursed, eyebrows close together. And for the very first time, George can't recognize the sight of him. That's not the same Bob that kissed him until his lips hurt. “Be safe, please.”

George nods, acknowledging her words and leaves. He gets into his rented car, tossing the luggage in the backseat and he realizes his guitar is missing. However, it doesn't matter at this point. George feels too sick, too impaired to come back for it. If he encounters Bob one more time he feels he might disintegrate. 

He plans to drive as far as he can, as further away as possible from this town and its cursed ponds, and tall trees and fallen leaves. Fog covers the landscape of Dylan's farm in his rearview mirror as George presses on the pedal and speeds off, the lights of the main house fading away. 

The engine falters in motion when George reaches the town, he stops at a red light for a moment but keeps on going when there are no cars coming in. Eventually, he feels the car lose power under his hands. He directs to the side of the road and the slow realization hits him, he hasn't pumped gas since he rented it and he doesn't remember seeing any gas stations close by. George punches the steering wheel out of frustration. The town is deserted and the wind howls against the car windows, rain threatening to fall at any moment. He's stuck.

He has a vision of Bob's lips, the words they whispered in the dark holding each other, the secretive smiles in the kitchen, their hands touching in the garden, their voices merging together in a song. It means nothing, absolutely nothing to him.

It feels worse than heartache, worse than a gunshot wound. It's a slow kill, like poison leaking into his blood, drop by drop or a boulder crushing him into a pulp.

Rain finally unleashes upon them. George sees lighting strike through the windshield. It's cold, his hands feel frosty and he blows into them for heat but a warm body next to him would feel much better. Again, Bob flashes his mind, what could've happened in that cottage, their bodies lost in lust and wrapped in heat. George thinks water might be leaking inside the car but then he realizes the water is coming from his own eyes, tears falling heavily onto his lap. 

Bob said he broke and damaged everything he touched. George just didn't expect to be part of it.

Chapter Text

Bob stands hollow-eyed in the hallway. The slam of the door echoes in the house. He believes it's thunder for a moment.

“What did you do?” Sara asks him, the tone of her voice tells him she's far from happy.

“Nothing that should concern you.” 

Bob walks across the living room to exit the house.

“Do not even, Dylan. You're gonna talk to me, right now.” Bob stops in his tracks, hand grazing the doorknob.

Bob clenches his jaw. “What is it?”

“What the fuck? What did you say to him?” 

Sara's big eyes drill a hole in his head. It doesn't take much from her to intimidate Bob. At just five foot seven with a slender model figure, Sara has been one of the few women Bob has been really scared of. It doesn't take muscle, he knows, it's her wit and sharp eyes, the bluntness of her tongue. Bob knows he is in for a lashing.

“Why do you think I did something?” Bob says, he's not going down without a fight.

“Because as far as I know, you've been pushing him away since the day he got here and whatever broke the camel's back must have come from you.”

“Can't you just get off my back? I'm done with this shit.” Bob tries to brush her off but this only upsets her further.

“Aren't you tired of pushing people you love away?” Bob has never said anything about love. He doesn't understand where she's coming from. “And don't give me that look. Even a blind man can see how much you love him. I'm not stupid.”

Bob turns his face to the wall but he knows Sara is the only person he can't hide from. She'll chase him to the gates of hell if she has to.

“What is your point?” 

“My point is that you're an idiot.” She blurts out. Bob scoffs a laugh. The last thing he needs is his own wife against him. “I'm sorry honey, but you're acting like one. You've finally found a friend in George, someone who clearly likes you for you and because he upset you, because he might have done something you deemed inappropriate, then he's off— gone from your life, exiled.” She gestures towards the door. 

“You don't know what he did.” 

“What did he do?” 

“He— I found him going through my shit, he found some songs I discarded and started playing them, saying he wanted to help me!”

“Seriously? So you're mad because he tried to help you get back into music?”

If only she knew it's more complicated than that, it's about a level of intimacy Bob is not ready to get into, much less jump head first.

“I'm mad because he crossed a line.”

“We've all crossed lines before, Bob. You've crossed many lines in your life and you will keep doing it.” Sara rubs her eyes. “He might not know boundaries but he doesn't mean bad. I think he did it out of love and appreciation for you. He's your biggest fan! Did he tell you about Blonde On Blonde?”

How could he forget?

“What are you implying here?” He asks.

Sara takes a deep breath.

“You need to start choosing happiness. I don't think happiness is a choice, but when you have all the right tools, the right people, you need to let go of that pain and choose to be happy.” Sara pauses and reaches for Bob's hands, “Bobby, honey, I want you to be happy.”

Bob deflates in her hands. It's like she has a spell on him. He lets out a shaky breath and leans his forehead against her shoulder. Sara holds his head, running her long fingers through his hair. She has a point, he considers, perhaps he's been holding on to the pain all this time. Sara rocks him, her touch always loving and motherly and Bob contemplates his actions. He feels disgusted and ashamed of the person he's become.

“He makes you happy, I know.” Sara whispers. 

Bob has everything he's ever wished for — a family, a successful career, recognition but he never quite managed to reach that level of happiness he hoped for. It always felt out of reach or like an incomplete puzzle. George has been that missing piece.  

At this point, Bob is aware this is more than just songs. This is about the brutal state of his soul. Bob warned him it would be gory and pitiful, and still, George wanted more of him. Bob can't decide if he should be flattered or vexed.

“I'm going to bed, you coming?” Sara asks.

“I'll stay up for a little longer.”

“Right…” Sara touches his face. “I'm sorry for calling you an idiot.” Bob purses his lips and blinks. He begins to think she's not wrong. “I love you.”

He kisses the palm of her hand. “And I love you.”

She leaves him to it, to confront his reality, his solitude. Rain starts to fall and Bob could use a drink. He serves himself a glass of whiskey and starts pacing in the living room. George must be miles away, either heading straight to the airport or crashing for the night at a motel. He hopes it's the latter. George must hate his guts now. But Bob is sure George thinks the same about him, if only he knew that nothing in this world would make Bob hate him. 

There's light coming from the dark hallway, it's the guest room, where Bob and George were just moments ago. Bob watched him as he packed his suitcase, waiting for George to change his mind, but he never did, he had enough. Bob reaches to close the door but the sight of George's guitar on the bed catches his attention. Bob knows this isn't a gift so George must have forgotten about it in the heat of the moment. 

Bob sits on the unmade bed, guitar on his lap. He takes a deep breath, the bed squeaks under his weight. Bob felt an indescribable kind of sadness, he couldn't quite pinpoint the moment it started, but if anyone asks, he can determine the moment it started decreasing. It all had begun when George looked at him like he was still worth something. That's when the cracks on his wall appeared and the light began to leak in.

On sleepless nights, when he couldn't close his eyes and drift away, he daydreamed about a love so real it became something. Anyone could argue he had it with Sara, but Bob believes it's different. They are married, committed to each other with kids in between, they can't leave each other even if they tried. With George, he didn't have to do it, he didn't have to show up on his doorstep with guitar in one hand and his heart in the other, and he could've left any time Bob snarled at him like a wounded animal. 

Well, he eventually did. But that's Bob's fault.

He chugs the remaining of the liquor and lays on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smell like George, there's a strand of his hair on the pillow. When Bob is faced with the reality that he might never see George again and return to what they were, it chills his bones. 

Shamelessly, Bob buries his face on the pillow where George's scent lingers on. He takes a deep breath. Oh, how he wishes to have laid down with him here, to feel the softness of his flesh and to nuzzle his neck. Bob is intoxicated with regret and the more time passes and the rain turns violent, his angst rises.

Where could he be? Is he safe? 

With this storm, it's likely George crashed at a hotel and lucky for Bob, he knows this town like the palm of his hand. There's only two motels around and one of them is in the outskirts of town. Bob does the math: if rain started just a few minutes after he stormed out, he must still be in Woodstock, tucked in crappy motel sheets, totally by himself.

Bob can't believe what he's about to do. 

After grabbing his keys, Bob switches his house shoes for his leather boots and puts on a raincoat. Before leaving the house, he turns to look at the hallway and knows Sara might kill him for this (if he doesn't die first).

It's not long until Bob is on the road with his motorcycle. The raindrops are thick and it's painful when they land on his skin. The glass on his helmet is splattered by water and Bob has to wipe it every minute to look at the road ahead. Bob grips on the handles and swallows all of his fear. This might be the worst autumnal storm Bob has seen but he's motivated to find George. 

The moment Bob drives to the town, he notices a car with its headlights on in the distance. It's strange, so he plans to drive by it carefully until he recognizes it as George's rented car. His heart jumps. What is he doing here?

Bob parks next to the driver's side door and knocks on the window. It's dark and Bob can't see George. He knocks and knocks, until he sees a shadow move inside.

“George?” The window is rolled down and George emerges. Bob smiles. “What are you doing here?” George glares at him. Bob suddenly remembers the reasons why George is not as happy or relieved to see him as he is. “Fuck… let me in, man, I'm freezing up here. I gotta talk to you.”

George continues to stare at him, expression unreadable. Bob feels as if an eternity passes before George gestures for him to come inside.

Leaving his motorcycle, Bob gets into the passenger seat. He is soaked, creating a puddle on the floor. He removes his helmet.

“What happened? How long have you been here?” No response. Bob realizes this is going to be harder than he thought. He takes a deep breath. “George, man… I don't know where to begin… I— I guess I have to start with an I'm sorry. I'm deeply sorry.”

The apology hangs in the air until George speaks, quietly, “Why did you follow me?”

“I couldn't let you go like that. I fucked up.” Bob replies. 

“Your apology doesn't mean anything to me right now.” George utters, stoned-face. It's like a punch to the gut but Bob saw it coming.

“I know, I…” He's freezing. There's a pool of rainwater inside his shoes. “Look, can we go somewhere warmer and drier to talk?”

“I'm not going back to the farm.”

“No, I was thinking of a motel. It's what must be open right now.” Bob offers, sheepishly.

“The car died, it needs gas.” George says.

Bob sighs. The motorcycle will do.

He gives George his helmet. If someone is going to break his skull, Bob believes it should be him. They leave the car on the side of the road, they'll get it once it stops raining, and Bob starts driving to the nearest motel only a torturous ten minutes away.

By the time they get there and walk into the reception, they are both soaked to the bone and the owner, an old Asian man, stares at them, puzzled, without a single hint of recognition on his expression. Bob pays for the nicest room they can get.

The room is clean enough, with a king size bed, a television, closet and dresser. Not bad, Bob has slept in worse places. 

“Gosh, I feel like even my brain is wet.” Bob says looking to lighten the mood.

George remains silent. He starts to remove his clothes and logically, Bob should do the same if they want to get warm and dry. 

“So, what is it?” George asks, hanging the clothes on the dresser to dry. There was so much he wanted to say, but now, it's like he forgot his ability to think or speak. “Came here to humiliate me even more? Punch me in the jaw and call me a fuckin' queer?”

“What?” Bob exclaims, taken back. 

George exhales, exasperated, he shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“George… I know you're mad at me, but please…”

“I'm mad? Just mad? Do you think it's that simple?

“No, of course not.” Bob mumbles. He diverts his eyes and continues undressing. He opens a small closet and finds a couple hangers, he hands George a pair.

“Why are we here, Bob? I just wanna go home to my wife.”

“Not with this weather you won't.”

“Are you holding me hostage?”

Bob's back faces George and he swears he hears a smile in his voice. Bob grins to himself. 

“You're free to go. I hope you know how to swim.” Bob says, lightheartedly. George hums a quiet laugh. “But really, there's nothing I can do to make you stay.” He didn't mean for it to sound as somber as it does.

“That's true.” George doubles down.

Ouch. 

Bob opens the curtains to take a look outside and fat droplets land on the window. “Well, if you really wanna go out there, at least take my raincoat.”

“I'm not going anywhere, not as long as it's raining like that.” George turns on the TV and sits on the bed. He starts watching a western movie but Bob is not sure if he's truly interested in the film or he's only doing it to not talk to him.

Bob desperately needs a smoke.

“You got any cigarettes?”

“In my jacket.”

Bob sticks his hand inside the piece of clothing and pulls out a box with a lighter. It's damp. He looks inside and all of the cigarettes are ruined except for one.

“They're all wet. I got this one, wanna share?”

George shrugs. Bob dashes the box on the dresser and sits on the bed, he lights up the cigarette and relief washes over his body when he takes a drag. He passes it over to George who only extends his two fingers to take it without looking at him. It never stops being enticing, the way George's lips wrap around the tip of the cigarette. He's so damn cool.

“Does Sara know you're here?” George suddenly asks.

“No. She had gone to bed when I left. She wouldn't have let me come in this weather. It's best if she doesn't know, I'm too much of a burden already.”

“Did she tell you that?”

Bob bites his lip remembering the conversation he had with Sara just an hour ago. “She told me many things.” Bob exhales. “She said I pushed people away.”

“You do. You push people away.” 

Bob rubs the back of his neck. He feels exposed. “I know, I do it when it gets scary. I just… I've always been scared of people knowing my true self. I changed my name when I started doing music, I lied to everyone about where I come from, about my upbringing… you know why? Because I never thought Bobby Zimmerman from fucking middle-class Minnesota was interesting enough to be a star. But I know I can't lie forever, so I push people away.”

“You were never not interesting to me.”

“And that's the thing— I just don't understand how you liked me, you're much cooler than I am. I am awkward, terribly shy, I can't stay still, I have a weird voice, big nose…” Bob starts feeling pathetic. He takes a big drag, shutting himself up before he continues throwing himself a pity party. 

“You forgot one…” George says and Bob looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You're a prick.”

Bob laughs and George joins him, teeth on full display. It's always a beautiful sight, his smile. 

“Yeah, well, Sara called me an idiot. So you both agree on that.” Bob takes one last drag before passing the cigarette back to George. “I've been an asshole to you, man and you didn't deserve it— I don't know what came over me, I don't know why… y'know, when I saw you with my songs…”

“I never wanted to intrude in your life, I wanted you to let me in.”

“I know.” Bob sighs and brings his knees against his chest. It's getting cold. “It got scary when I let you in because you get me so well… And I felt undeserving of your love.”

“No, c'mon man. We deserve the love we give.”

“What have I given you besides pain?” Bob replies quickly.

“I don't have to tell you when you already know. Your music, your art, it makes millions of people happy. It makes me happy.” George explains.

“You make me happy.” Bob retorts. Silence. George blinks and Bob believes there's no turning back now. “That's why I came. I choose happiness for once and you make me happy. And I dreamed of that sort of happiness so many times when I laid awake in pain. In the darkness I saw cracks of light, and I saw you.”

George closes the distance between them and kisses him the moment Bob finishes his sentence. This is why he came, how could he let go when it is like this? When the taste of his lips is so addicting? Bob could try and search the world, but there would never be a drug similar to George's mouth. 

But George separates, he abandons his lips and Bob fears the worst. George sticks their foreheads together and hesitates for a moment, he wants to say something. “I can't do this… I can't do this if you're gonna keep pushing me away.”

Bob takes his face in his hands “No, man, no… George, please believe me.” Bob understands he's borderline pleading but he won't be able to forgive himself if George doesn't forgive him. “I'd never hurt you again, cross my heart and hope to die.”

George nods, looks down to his lips and with a cheeky grin, he says, “You've gone soft now, haven't ye?”

Bob smiles. “No, I just love you.” He kisses him back, sneaking a hand behind his neck and pushing him towards his mouth and giving him a sloppy kiss. 

Moments later George has him pinned to the bed, their erections rubbing on each other. Bob is thrilled to finally have George like this, to have him on the bed, free to get comfortable and touch his body like God intended. He rounds his neck with his arms and kisses him hard, teeth and tongues clashing against one of another. He thrusts upwards, feeling the hardness of George's dick. 

There's no need for questions this time, Bob knows what they both want, George's body is warm and tender on top of him, his big hands roam down his abdomen and end up on his crotch, feeling him up over the underwear. Bob wants to be taken by him once again, like that opportunity they had where George bended him over the table to fuck his brains out, but Bob thinks they might not make it that far,their legs are tangled with one another and the flame is burning high.

George sticks his hand past the waistband of his boxers and gropes his cock. Bob gasps and George stops. “No, no, I'm okay…” He whispers against his lips. “Shit, keep going.”

Bob pushes down his boxers and kicks them off the bed. George brackets his legs and jerks him off tightly. Bob searches for his lips, he deepens the kiss, tongues grazing each other. He's hungry, starving for George, the yearning grows with every stroke and kiss— it's not enough, he wants to crawl inside his skin. Bob grips George's shoulders, he scratches his skin with his fingernails.

“Ouch.” 

Bob takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry, I got carried away…” 

George smiles at him tenderly, his hand slows down. “You like it rough?”

Not necessarily, but with George, Bob feels as though he's awoken a beast. Bob bites his lip, all coy and flustered. “A bit.”

George chuckles softly. “Alright, I'll give it to you…”

George takes a hold of Bob's hair and pushes his head back, exposing the column on his throat, lips landing on his skin, making their way up to his jaw. George nibbles on the sensitive skin and he strokes Bob dangerously slow.

“Ah, George—”

George shushes him, he kisses the side of his face, then lowers back to his neck where he sinks his teeth. Bob hisses in pain but George rewards him by licking the bite. The thought of being marked by him sends shocks down to his cock where George is back at pumping him with more speed. He'd love to be fucked by him, spread open on the bed but with no much lubrication available, this will do. Bob doesn't think he'll last long, though. Since the very first time George touched him, he's been on edge, longing to be fondled again, to be under his fingertips. Yearn and angst are a lethal combination.

Bob moans out loud, George whispers sweet words of encouragement to the shell of his ear. He's so close. Bob grabs his head and crashes their lips together once more, he sucks on his bottom lip — something he's always wanted to do. It builds up inside Bob, he curls his toes and seconds later he's spurting in George's fist.

When Bob opens back his eyes, George is looking down at him with a smug grin, his fist still closed around Bob's softening cock. Bob shudders.

“Oh, man. That was…” Bob says, exhaling, his fogged mind can't come up with words to describe how good it felt.

George kisses him, this time as sweet as honey and Bob appreciates the gesture. George removes his underwear and tosses it aside, then lays next to Bob. He takes his hands, his thumb tracing over his palm and glides his hands down to his navel. Bob knows what to do, so he sits between George's legs and lowers his head.

Bob sucks him off to the best of his abilities. He rests his head on his hip and licks him from base to head. Bob puts his heart into it, not only because he wants to pleasure George, but he needs to let him know he cares, that he's in safe hands. George combs his hand with his fingers, guides him through it until he comes into Bob's mouth, holding his head in place and finishing down his throat. Bob violently coughs, breaking away and George lays there, spent.

“Are you alright, love?” Bob continues to cough but gives him a thumbs up, then George says, opening his arms, “C'mere.”

Bob comes back to his side and they rest in each other's arms, watching a new western film on TV. George is warm and Bob clings to him, like a kitten seeking for its mother's heat. Eventually, Bob snoozes off.

Sometime later, Bob wakes up to the bright lights of the T.V. With George now asleep, he relieves his bladder in the bathroom then turns off the television. The room is completely silent, he can no longer hear rain. He walks to the window and slightly opens the curtains to take a look outside. It's still dark, but the rain has ceased. The motel parking lot is wet and Bob would love to go outside and smell the pavement. There's a hint of soreness on his back and neck but Bob pushes it away, there isn't much he can do about it right now.

“Bob?” Bob turns to him, George is barely awake, eyes half-open, leaning on his elbow. “What time is it?”

Bob checks his watch, “Just a few minutes past four. When is your flight?”

“Ten.” George yawns and looks at him up and down. “Are you leaving?”

“No… But the rain stopped…”

“Oh…” George says and Bob bites his lip, waiting for George to announce that he has to go, “You comin' back to bed?”

Bob's heart melts into syrupy affection. He climbs back to bed after closing the curtains, getting under the covers with a grunt, his back against George's chest. George nuzzles his neck, groaning groggily and drapes an arm over his waist. 

“Does it hurt?” George asks him.

“A bit.” 

George moves back and massages Bob's neck, pressing his digits on the muscle. He draws circles with his thumb on his nape and down his back, seeking to relieve the pain. Sometime later, George returns to the previous position and Bob is lax in his arms.

“George…” Bob whispers.

“Yeah?” He replies, the vibrations of his voice send tingles down Bob's spine.

“I'm really sorry. For everything.” 

“Bobby, I forgive you.” George tells him and plants a kiss on his shoulder. Bob's breathing soothes and he closes his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. “I love you.”

Bob kisses his hand.

❧

Bob calls Sara the next morning. As George takes a shower, Bob walks to a payphone nearby. Needless to say, Sara is furious. Not because he's with George, but because he left last night during a storm without telling her. Bob apologizes over and over until Sara calms down.

By the time Bob is back in the room, George is all dressed up. “Breakfast? My treat.” Bob says, tossing him a new pack of cigarettes he just bought.

George steps closer and slides a hand down his back, stopping right at where his ass starts. George plants a kiss on his lips and Bob's heart aches — he'll miss him. “Is there a way I could fit you in my suitcase and take you with me?”

Bob smiles into the kiss, “Sara will send a hit for us both just for leaving her with four kids by herself.”

George sighs, Bob can sense his disappointment. He kisses him deeper to make up for it. “You will visit right?” George asks, separating to place a cigarette between his lips.

“Whenever I can— Oh shit, George! Your guitar!” Bob recalls George's guitar in his guest room, abandoned.

George lights up his cigarette and brushes it off. “Keep it, it's yours.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. A thank you gift for letting me stay. And something to remember me by.”

“Amongst other things…” Bob grabs his cigarette and takes a drag, only to exhale all of the smoke into George's open mouth.

George smiles and brings their lips together one more time before leaving the motel.

❧

They carry gas pints to fill George's tank on Bob's motorcycle, then drive to a diner close by for breakfast.

“My last American breakfast.” George says, wistfully when the waitress brings their order of waffles and eggs. 

“Best breakfast you'll ever have.” 

“Nothing beats beans on toast, mate.”

Bob rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. The diner starts to get busy and locals nod his way. Bob smiles at them. It's a beautiful day. After days of endless storming, sunshine starts to seep through the clouds. Somehow fall looks brighter now — then, it was dull, wet, cold and gray. Now, there's a golden hue to Woodstock's landscape, one Bob hadn't noticed before. 

“I'm gonna miss Woodstock, though. I remember the very first day… I was amazed by its beauty. It's straight out of a painting.” George says.

Perhaps it wasn't as gray as Bob perceived it to be, maybe Woodstock had always had an autumnal beauty Bob failed to recognize until George came along and showed him colors he didn't know existed.

Bob feels a weight off his shoulders and his senses are sharper — like ripping off a muzzle, a sleep-mask, everything is so clear to him now — the children with their colorful coats walking to school, the yellow of his eggs, the man selling flowers on a stand across the road and George, sitting in front of him, with the prettiest eyes he's ever had the pleasure to come across and his heart on his sleeve, one Bob won't destroy with his bare hands but instead, he'll cherish and care for it, like he should've done in the first place. 

When they are done, they walk together to George's car and Bob is not ready to say goodbye. He stalls on it, excuses himself to go back to the diner's bathroom to splash water on his face and delay his departure, but he knows George might miss his plane if he keeps on being a coward.

George is smoking a cigarette when Bob comes back. He wishes he could throw himself in his arms and kiss him like in noir movies, arms under his armpits, hips pressed against him, with George's hand on the back of his head. But he can't, not here. Instead, he grins awkwardly at him and clears his throat.

“Well… I guess it is time.”

George nods, smoke coming out of his nostrils. “Yeah, I guess so. Thank you for everything— your home, the food, the warmth…”

“Anytime, man. You're always welcome, whether you're with Pattie or by yourself.”

George steps on his cigarette and looks up to him through his dark fringe. Bob extends his hand. “Thank you for the guitar by the way.”

George stares at his hand and chuckles, but takes it. He gives him a steady shake, as if they're closing a business deal. “Right, it's nothing, the least I can do.”

They stand in the parking lot, staring at each other. Bob crosses his arms, waiting for George to get in his car and drive away.

“So… uh…” Bob rubs the back of his head, flustered.

“Hey, uh… There's something I want you to see, a very cute tree.”

“A very cute tree?” He frowns, confused.

“Yeah, c'mon, follow me.” George gestures.

Bob ends up following George to the back of the diner. It's far from pretty or cute, there's a smelly trash can right next to the employee's door. But there's a tree across from the diner, with red and yellow leaves, the carnival of colors mesmerizes Bob for a moment. 

“Oh.”

They get closer to it and the branches and leaves work as a colorful tent over them. Bob knocks on the wood, it's nice and sturdy, far too pretty to be hidden behind this place. Bob watches a squirrel with amusement climb the tree and disappear in the foliage.

Next thing he knows he's pinned against the tree, George's body flush against his form. Bob's breathing comes to a halt as he anticipates George's next move. With a hand next to his head, George lowers his face and gives him a fierce and hearty kiss. Bob clutches the front of his shirt, wanting him closer as he kisses him back passionately, sliding his tongue inside his wet mouth. They kiss for a long time, confident in the fact that no one is back here, until George separates, Bob knows it's time to go. It's the best farewell kiss he's ever gotten.

They walk back to the car and Bob is semi-hard inside his jeans. He sees George adjust himself and Bob is glad he's not the only one. They stand by the driver's door and this time, Bob enfolds him, patting his back.

“Take care, alright, man?”

“You too. I mean it. Don't disappear.” George says, almost sternly but Bob understands.

“I'll write to you.” Bob reassures.

“Love ye, man.” George whispers in the embrace and as casual as it sounds, Bob holds on to the weight of its meaning. 

“And I love you.” Bob steals one last kiss, turning his head and planting a swift peck on his lips, so quick, bystanders wouldn't bat an eye. “Have a safe flight.”

George grins and pulls back. Bob watches him get in the car and turn on the engine. George waves at him with his toothy smile, always so contagious. Bob's cheeks hurt from smiling. He waves his hand in the air, heart drowning in love and affection, soul eternally marked, as George drives away.

As the sunshine hits his face, warming up the unforgiving cold, and the birds chirp in the trees inspiring him for a song, Bob has a feeling better days will come. He leaves the blue for the rainbows and the sorrow crushed under his boots, and knows, whatever pain comes his way, won't last forever.