Chapter Text
George was nervous. Last time he‘d seen Bob was ’65, and back then he didn‘t have to break the ice. Bob was flying then. George worried - now that Bob‘s seemingly sober, it‘ll be different. He doesn‘t know how or why it would be, but he‘s afraid of it.
His legs hadn‘t shaken this much since his first show with the quarrymen, as they were called, which completely baffled him – the cavern was his first ever performance, his first audience, but this? This is just Bob Dylan‘s porch, yet he‘s shaking like one of those itty bitty handbag pooches.
Despite himself, he raised his knuckles to the door and knocked.
„Who is it?“ came the hoarse voice George had heard on all of his favourite records.
„it‘s George-„ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat „George Harrison.”
All that could be heard on the other side of the door was slight footsteps. George wasn’t given much time to prepare before the door was carefully opened – very unlike Bob, George noted.
Immediately, George found himself engulfed in Dylan’s arms. “If it isn’t my favourite Beatle,” He could hear Bob smile into his shoulder “Man, you should’ve come sooner”. They stayed in an embrace for an unusually long time before Bob pulled away and George got a chance to take in his appearance.
Bob’s hair was shorter, neater, it no longer reminded him of a storybook witch. Both of his eyes were brighter, they didn’t look like they were constantly fighting sleep anymore. His cheeks were plumper, slight stubble tracing his defined jaw, making him look less like a teenager and more like a man his own age. His neck seemed thicker, George used to worry it would break under the weight of Bobs curly mane. His shoulders looked broader, they filled his clothes out much better now-
“You gonna get in here or do you want me to close the door on you?” Bob sighed in what George could only assume was frustration. He didn’t want to take any chances.
“Sure, ta.”
That made Bob smile, which made George smile. The door was closed before George could even register the change in scenery. Bob spoke up just as quickly.
“Do I really look that bad?”
George paused. “Sorry?”
“You were eyeing me, man. Every cat comin’ over here does. I look worse.”
The smile on Bobs face tried and, frankly, failed to convince George that he doesn’t care. Bobs tone suggested there was no arguing his way out of this - either he agrees, or he’s a liar in Bob’s eyes. Still, the Beatle was about to answer, when Dylan cut in.
“Forget it, man.”
Bob lit a cigarette.