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He looked out of the window. The sun casted a golden glow to George's sprawling estate. He thought of George's nimble fingers gliding easily on the fretboard of his guitar, how gentle they also were when he tends to his plants—that are beginning to look like a grander and much more untamed version of Monet's garden in Giverny, how much it mirrored George’s response to the chaos that was their lives as The Beatles. How George treated everything he touched, he also gets in bed, in the ways that the younger man mapped out the planes of his body first with those fingers, and then eventually his mouth.
He loved it when George initiates contact on moments right after George's penchant need for alone time. How soft and reverent, George would be, peppering feather soft kisses that doesn't always lead to sex. But it's comfort, to partake in George’s rituals, to give and receive, to dictate and to be dictated, almost spiritual in nature, he realized, amused.
Still, he'd learned to love George in his loneliness and his anger, appreciated it when George finally started to open up to him, allowing him deeper into his heart, telling him about his fears and anxiety, the band, the luxury it afforded them as well as its dangers. He gives back his love tenfold. George told him once. How he did it, he never really figured out yet, but he took the compliment nonetheless and waits for the time when George is ready to elaborate further.
"Penny for your thoughts." George said, voice gruff from sleep. He felt the younger man settle next to him, felt those talented fingers take the cup from his hand. He knew George hated tepid tea, having drank so much of it while they were recording, but made no move to remind George that. He turned to George just in time to see him make a face at the cup, like it was the most offending thing in the world.
"Nothing much in me head right now. Other than I love you, y'know." He said truthfully which made George laugh...the youthful, rakish kind that he took a delight in hearing the first few months he spent with the band, when his fears of being replaced were constant, before he managed to find his rhythm in the group.
"Love you too." George answered easily, picking up the now empty mug from the ledge, "Come back to bed with me?" pleaded George.
It is one of those times where he wished he had his camera with him, make a physical copy of the image of George relaxed, and so in his element, happier, content, a sight he's come to see more often now.
When George kissed him later in their bed, it's religion of another kind, he revered at the feeling, reminding George, "We're okay."