Chapter Text
Ringo and George burst through the back doors to the venue, the unceremonious fire escape echoing loudly in the small backstage space.
Richard glanced at his watch. 4:26. Paul’s going to have their arses for this one.
The two men weaved through person after person rushing around in their own little world, getting ready for the later show.
Rich stumbled onto the stage after nearly being tripped by one of the cameramen, and caught the eyes of John and Paul. Great entrance, Ritchie, the drummer chastised himself internally.
Paul’s brow furrowed as he locks eyes with the shorter man, and he puts his bass—which he’d just been tuning—down on the floor. “I said four, didn’t I?” He snarked, hands on his hips, looking at George and Ringo like naughty children.
Richard’s fists flexed, which brought a dull sting of pain shooting through his arms—he’d forgotten about the wraps on his palms. The teacup. (Ritchie, why would you—)
Exhaling sharply through his nose, Ringo made his was toward his drum kit, sitting himself down on the too-low chair, picking up his sticks and fiddling around with the drum skins, keeping his aching hands busy.
George’s eyes lingered on the shorter man. Rich seemed… particularly agitated today. Short, clipped answers with John, now just ignoring Paul? Usually he’d at least break the tension with a joke or a quip—
George is broken out of thought by a guitar—his guitar—being thrust into his hands by a stagehand. He blinked down at it, shaking his head, clearing his thoughts. He would come to me if something was wrong, George tried to convince himself.
Right?
Practice droned on as usual, the four men singing and playing together like they always have, playing their lovely music, making their lovely melodies.
But it felt suffocating to the drummer. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he didn’t feel good. A sharp pang of anxiety rung through him at the thought that he might be sick (useless, chi—), but he quickly dismissed it. He didn’t get sick anymore. Not anymore.
Paul was being particularly nit picky that day. Correcting everyone, even John, as they went along. Pausing songs, clearing his throat pointedly, even making them do a few songs several times to get them right.
Richard’s hands ached. Every time he hit a drum too hard, or he gripped a stick too tight, it felt like someone was pressing a dull knife into his nerves.
By the time break hit, Rich was practically praying to God to let him out of the stuffy venue. He rushed outside, bringing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his back pocket, and swiftly lighting one. He hadn’t puffed all morning—as George made him promise to cut down on the smoking. He was trying. He really was. (Try harder)
He twisted an imaginary ring around his finger. He couldn’t wear his rings, not with the wraps around his palms, the ones he could still recall vividly how George’s fingers tied them around his fingers, how gentle he was…
“Ringo?” Speak of the devil—or, Angel, in this case.
Ringo spun around, cigarette perched between his fingers, smoke curling into the cold fall air, crisp and clearly visible. Remembering what George had said about smoking, he quickly hid the rolled paper behind his back, flashing George a sheepish smile that faded too quickly to even be a good joke.
“Hey, Hazza.” He replied quietly, the nickname making George’s heart flutter, downturned blue eyes looking up into almond shaped hazel.
George simply stared at the other man for a moment too long. Rich simply stared back.
“…are you alright?” George blurted out, unable to keep it in his chest anymore. “You’re—you’ve been…” he let out a long sigh, and moved to lean against the brick wall beside Ringo.
“You’ve been awfully quiet during practice,” George eyed Ringo’s fingers as he brought out the smouldering cigarette again, pressing it to his lips and taking a long huff. “Haven’t made a fuss or laughed in that way you do for a while.” He looks away, kicking a rock between his feet, then away.
Richard’s jaw tightens. He accidentally gets a taste of the burning filter of his cig, and promptly spits it out. The short stub of paper lands crudely on the pavement of the little back alley the two men stand in.
Ringo turns towards George, now facing the taller man head-on, and tries to look as sincere as possible.
“I’m fine, George.” He says simply, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides, painfully.
George looks concerned—no, it’s gone past concern. George is worried. He’s worried about his bandmate, worried about his friend, worried about his—
…just worried.
George steps forward, closing the distance between them, and wraps his thin arms around Ringo’s shorter frame, pulling the other man close enough to hear his heartbeat.
“You better not be fuckin’ lyin’.” His voice sounds a little strained, like he’s on the cusp of letting tears fall.
And Rich can’t have that, can he?
The older pulls back slightly, staring up into George’s eyes, before he truly closes the distance.
He doesn’t even bother to look around first.
His mouth is on George’s, and the sickening feeling in Ringo’s gut almost evaporates completely. George startles at first, trying to push him away, keeping his eyes open to look around nervously.
But the way Ringo’s strong hands are curled in his lapels, tugging him closer, the way those teeth are catching on his bottom lip… how could he ever even think to resist.
Ringo crowds the younger man up against the brick wall, fingers grazing soft patterns over George’s neck and shoulders that make him feel dizzy.
George has the audacity to moan into Ringo’s mouth, lips parting for the other man’s tongue, as his slim fingers finally find their spot on Rich’s waist, digging slight into the fabric of his trousers.
When they finally pull back to breathe, both them are flushed and panting against each other’s lips. Ringo laughs first. George follows soon after, and the two men giggle away in close courters.
Ringo watched the way the other’s shoulders jump up with each bout of laughter, the way his canines shine particularly bright in the dim light of the fading sky. Ringo couldn’t stop himself from thinking—‘dear god, I’m so in lo—‘
Ringo practically launches himself backwards, stumbling, almost tripping over his own laces and falling on his arse. The emergency exit door clatters loudly as a crew member emerges, telling the two Beatles that their final practice is in five minutes.
The boys melt into the floor the moment the venue crew member is gone. That had been close. Too close.
They giggle about it nonetheless.