⋆𐙚 ̊. Won’t You Let Me See You Smile? ⋆𐙚 ̊.
Pairing : Lee!George Harrison x Ler!Paul McCartney
Content : Tickling, Smoking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, RPF
Summary : George just can’t seem to muster a laugh at Paul’s questionable taste in television and needs some…persuasion
A/N : Just my fictionalized interpretation of a rare day off in the lives of The Beatles. These are just characterized versions of the boys, similar to how they appear in their movies. Everything is platonic and SFW !! Requested by @beetlegiggle who wanted to see my spin on lee George and ler Paul ♡ also tagging @mattadia
If fame and fortune taught them anything, it was that days off were not to be taken lightly.
1964 was shaping up to be a banner year for The Beatles, all thanks to their breakout on American airwaves and the kickstart of their very first tour of the states. It was like living in a fairytale, but with little time to actually enjoy any of it. In many ways, the four young lads were like nomads who traveled strictly between cabs, hotel rooms, and airplanes, as well as the added pressure of appearing before reporters while snapping cheeky quips. It wasn't ideal, but their high spirits and musical ambitions kept them from growing tired of it all. In a way, this routine was standard living even back in their humble Liverpool days. It seemed like nothing could knock these boys down from the ladder of success.
That doesn't mean a rest isn't in order every now and then. Instruments need to be put down, suits need to be pressed, and ciggies have to be smoked. Coincidentally, that's exactly what the two youngest Beatles seem to be up to. The band was currently in San Francisco, the first stop of their North American tour. Their performance wasn't until tomorrow night, so the four lads all saw an opportunity to recharge and have some well-needed fun while still being limited to the confines of their hotel. John and Ringo, ever the socialites, headed down to the bar in the lobby to get a few drinks in their system. Meanwhile, Paul and George stayed up in their shared room, opting to get some rest and relaxation.
Paul was sat in a loveseat, cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers while his hazel, doe eyes were fixated on the black and white television set. Meanwhile, George was lounging on the couch beside his bandmate, also smoking and watching the tv, but with a lot more bafflement written on his sharp face. They were watching the newest episode of a mindless sitcom, anything to pass the time. Paul seemed to be amused by it enough, occasionally chuckling when a humorous punchline was delivered and grinning slightly at the pure absurdity of it all. He always had a soft spot for silly stuff like that.
George, on the other hand, couldn't fathom what he was watching. He saw bits and pieces of American television when visiting his sister, but it was never something this cheesy and tacky. Most of all, he couldn't understand why Paul was enjoying it! The long flight must have made him delirious or something. It was the only explanation George could think of. He fights tooth and nail to keep his sour opinion to himself and suffer silently, that is, until another cheap joke was made by one of the characters on screen.
"How do ya watch this rubbish?" George suddenly blurts out, thick eyebrows stitched together in a mixture of confusion and disgust.
Paul nearly jumps at the sudden sound of his mate's voice, so accustomed to the peaceful white noise. The cigarette almost falls from his fingers before he brings it back up to his lips, taking a quick drag.
"What d'ya mean? It's just a programme. Nothin' else to it." Paul replies casually, flicking some ash onto the ashtray by the end table.
"It's shite, is what it is." The younger retorts, his thick scouse accent curling around each word in only a way George can say. He rubs his temple at the mind numbing comedy on the screen, finding each new joke to be as unbearable as the last. Before Paul gets the chance to reply, George beats him to it, eager to voice his distaste.
"The actin' is terrible and so is the writin'. It's like every line was written by a stuffy, old man who never heard a joke in his life! And don't even get me started on that damn laugh track!"
After his mini rant, George takes a long drag of his cigarette before extinguishing it on his ashtray, muttering something else under his breath about yanks having horrible senses of humor. Meanwhile, Paul has to practically bite back his growing smirk at George's irritation. He always found it ironic how he was dubbed the quiet Beatle when it couldn't be further from the truth during moments like these. The bassist simply chuckles at the younger lad's annoyance, deciding to wind him up on purpose now.
"Oh, come off it. All these shows have 'em these days. It's charming, isn't it?" Paul asks innocently. He watches with thinly kept amusement at the way George's face practically contorts in distain at the question. It was as if the very existence of a laugh track was an offense to his life.
"It's daft! If ya need a recordin' to tell people when to laugh, then the jokes weren't funny to begin with!" George protests, his voice taking on a slightly more whiny quality than he'd like to admit. If it weren't for his fatigued state, he would have gotten up to change the channel at least ten times already.
As George lets his irritation simmer, he fails to pick up on the imaginary lightbulb that went off in Paul's head, his doe eyes adopting a gleam that only appears moments before mischief. He soon extinguishes his own ciggie, turning all his attention over to the scowling guitarist beside him. Paul tuts teasingly, shaking his head like a disappointed parent.
"Stop makin' a fuss and just watch. I'm willin' to bet at least one joke will make you laugh." Paul remarks playfully, rising from his loveseat to now sit next to George on the couch. He situates himself closely to the younger man, wrapping his right arm around his waist in a rather tight hold.
"Fat chance of that." George scoffs, his face adopting a similar pout to when his guitar won't tune properly.
That pout seems to dwindle ever so slightly at Paul's touch, his furrowed brows and tense jaw loosening into something more akin to tranquility despite the awful show on the screen. The smoky scent of the cigarettes lingers on both their clothes, only adding to the placid scene. For a minute or two, the bandmates are quiet, allowing the sitcom to run and fill in the gaps of silence. George sits, waiting with a blank expression for another idiotic quip while Paul watches him through the corner of his eye for the perfect moment to strike. And strike he does.
Mere seconds after some shoddy pun was made by the lead actor, Paul's hand that was resting on George's waist begins to lightly skitter up and down his side, fingers stoping just short of his ribs. The younger Beatle instantly jolts, a strangled gasp leaving his lips before he could process what was happening.
"What the 'ell are you doin'?!" George asks blindsided, a small snicker escaping his lips despite his bemusement. This only seems to encourage Paul to keep going, knowing his plan was going off without a hitch.
"I told ya that you'd laugh eventually. Now quit your sulkin' and lighten up!" Paul exclaims with a full blown smile, determination laced between his words. It doesn't take long before another punchline is delivered, signaling for more tickling. The bassist's fingers work in a quick yet gentle dance along George's waist, skittering with just enough pressure to make him squirm.
"F-Fuhuhuhuck ohohohoff!" George chortles, trying half heartedly to escape Paul's grasp and dodge his attack. His attempts fall short, as Paul had a damn solid hold on the lanky guitarist, his fingers only kicking up in speed the more he moves away.
"Not after hearin' that sound, Geo. C'mon, give me another." Paul coaxes in an affectionate tease, deciding to up the ante and move upwards to poke between George's ribs like he was playing his piano.
"Nohohoho, you bahahahastard!" George exclaims, his boyish giggles hitting a new pitch as one of his most ticklish spots is attacked. Not even the fabric of his turtleneck could do a thing to shield him from Paul's fingers, actually somehow making the tingly sensations that much worse. His long legs begin to twitch and instinctively kick out, making Paul look on with a smile of his own.
"Y'er just as ticklish as when we were kids." Paul chuckles fondly, alternating between poking the lead guitarist's ribs and vibrating them with his hand.
Meanwhile, George is mentally cursing the rosy blush that crawls up his ears, knowing that Paul is dead right. He somehow remembers all his tickle spots from all those years prior, a fact that's now hitting the younger like a freight train. He continues to squirm helplessly, making his dark brown mop top go tousled. Much to George's dismay, Paul never seemed to let up, not as long as that damn sitcom kept making jokes.
One particularly bad play on words earned George a scribble on the ribs followed quickly by Paul's other hand darting up to tickle behind his crimson ear.
"FUHUHUCKING 'EHEHELL! S-Stahahahahap!" The poor lad wails, his once boyish giggles evolving into full on bursts of belly laughter at the blink of an eye. George tries to coordinate himself to slap Paul's hands away, but the most they do is brush his wrists rather weakly. The bassist can't help but laugh affectionately himself.
"I thought you said this show was rubbish. Seems you find it funny now, eh?" Paul taunts, giving his bandmate a wink.
Poor George didn't know how much longer he could hang on without passing out from laughter. He hoped and prayed for a commercial break, but it never came. He simply lay there against the couch cushions, trying to conceal his ears and ribs as best as possible but with no such luck. Upon hearing Paul's triumphant tone, George instant recoils, biting down hard on his lips to stop that toothy smile from growing and to muffle that laughter bubbling in his throat. He could not let Paul have this. No way in hell.
Paul can only raise an eyebrow at this, his tickling growing in intensity at George's stubborn pride.
"Oh, now you're askin' for it!"
Quicker than anything George had seen Paul do in his life, his hands occupying his ribs and ears shot down to grip his hips, squeezing the sensitive skin between his hipbones. His dark brown eyes widen, about to beg pathetically before his bright laughter cuts him off.
"O-OHOHOHOHO C'MOHOHOHOHN!"
George cackles, hips bucking up wildly while his eyes squeeze shut in laughter. Those futile attempts at hiding his smile were long forgotten, as George forgets to do everything in the world except for letting out bouts of laugher. Paul couldn't remember the last time he saw his youngest mate act so carefree and childlike. It was like watching his old seventeen year old self again with the dorky smile and tight drainpipe trousers. It was a rare sight to see, but it was certainly beautiful.
"Not stoppin' until you admit this programme is makin' you laugh!" Paul remarks in a sing-song voice, continuing to squeeze and knead along George's hip bones. "Better surrender while you can still have enough air to do so, son."
That last taunt was punctuated by a few ticklish pinches up and down George's hips, starting from the divots and going up to his sides in an agonizingly effective way. It was like a tingly electric shock that shook his whole slender frame, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to drive the guitarist into another round of hysterics.
"AHAHAHALRIGHT, I'M LAHAHAHAHAUGHIN'!" He shrieks, small tears of mirth forming in the corners of his tightly shut eyes.
The admission, as well as seeing those tiny droplets roll down George's cheek was enough to make Paul stop, a mix of pity and endearment crossing his face. He retracts his mischievous hands, instead using them to help George sit up and lightly touch up his frazzled hair. The younger Beatle's loud cackles die down into small huffs for air mixed with residual giggles, that famous lopsided, toothy grin on full display for Paul to see. It really was like taking a trip down memory lane, one filled with carelessness and laughter...
"Y'alright?" Paul asks almost sheepishly, feeling somewhat guilty for making his bandmate even more worn out than he previously was. His hands now move to rub gentle circles in George's back, providing a soothing gesture to combat the intense, ticklish nerves still lingering.
"'m fine. Doesn't mean yer not a sadist, though." George snarks with a light shove, not even cross in the slightest at the forced, undignified giggles that were forced from his mouth. Paul's slightly penitent expression turned into one of relief, his doe eyes softening with affection. He's about to say something to George, something rather sentimental and tender about how nice it is to hear his real laugh, but the sound of the television cuts off his thoughts.
It was now, after seemingly an eternity, the end of the episode. The sitcom then switches to yet another American comedy show, making the two lads groan collectively at their horrible luck. George, after fixing some strays on his mop top, looks over at Paul with a quizzical brow.
"Wanna see how the other two are fairin'?" He asks, voice and body language suddenly struck with a burst of energy and newly found enthusiasm.
Paul nods once in agreement, grabbing his spare suit from a coat rack and standing up with George by his side.
"Thought you'd never ask." He slings an arm over George's shoulder, eager to mingle and get some well needed bevvies.
