Archive of Our Own ^beta

The house was silent, serene; the only sound to be heard was the gentle crashing of waves from the dark waters just outside. Everyone had turned in fairly early, thoroughly exhausted from a lazy day spent in the sun. Spain was good for their spirits it seemed, a needed escape. A chance to rest and breathe.

A loud clang woke Ringo from a restless sleep. His eyes snapped open and he held his breath, listening for any other sounds and wondering vaguely if perhaps he’d just dreamt the first. Granted his dreams weren’t usually that vivid.

After several moments of silence he became acutely aware of the fact that his entire body felt like it was melting.  He blinked as he threw off his blanket, not as if that helped any; the heat seemed to be radiating from his own skin. With a low groan he ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, resting his palm over his eyes after, memories of the day coming back to him in a rush; black sand, warm waters, hours spent on the beach talking with George in the sun.

Ah yes, that would be why. Fucking sunstroke.

A second rattling bang sounded through the house; not quite as jarring this time but still loud enough to wake any light sleepers. Who was up at this ungodly hour banging around the house?

With a long sigh Ringo rose to his feet, fully intent on telling off whoever was causing all the racket. His knees shook, vision quickly beginning to blur in the peripheral. With a soft curse he sat back down, rubbing his eyes and trying to clear his head. He pressed his palms to his face, letting out a long, slow sigh between his fingers, wanting nothing more than to just curl back up and have another go at that whole sleeping thing. After a bit of steady breathing and a low groan he stood again, managing to stay balanced without almost fainting this time.

The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, offering a small relief to the heat that was plaguing him. He made his way through the house as quietly as he could, the fingers of one hand trailing over the wall beside him. Judging by the sounds he’d heard, someone was messing around in the kitchen, and rather unsuccessfully.

As he entered the small kitchen he couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at his lips. George was there, fumbling around with a kettle and cursing under his breath, a heavy blanket wrapped tightly around him.

“Tea? At this hour?”

George jumped at the sudden voice, dropping the kettle once again. Ringo winced as George hissed out another curse. He nodded quickly, bending down to retrieve the wayward kettle. Ringo was about to laugh but quickly stopped himself, concern taking the place of sleepy amusement.

George was shaking, and quite violently.

“Everything alright?”

George gave one sharp shake of his head, still bent over on the floor. His fingers were gripping the teakettle so tightly his knuckles were paling, the contrast with his sun burnt skin noticeable even in the dull light. “I’m f-fucking freezing, Rich.”

Ringo could hear George’s teeth clacking together as he spoke. He swallowed, trying to rid his throat from the lump of worry taking shape there.

The drummer stepped closer, crouching down beside the younger man. He looked him over, taking in his sweat-damp hair, his shaking frame and how hard he was biting his lower lip to keep his teeth from chattering. Ringo somewhat hesitantly brought a hand up and brushed a few strands of wet hair from George’s eyes, placing his palm to his friend’s forehead.

“I’m too fucking warm myself, can’t tell if you’ve got a fever.” Ringo shook his head, removing his hand from George and chewing on his thumbnail thoughtfully before a thought occurred to him, a faraway memory from a childhood spent ill. “Sit still a bit. Gonna try what my mum used to do for me.”

George nodded, curling in on himself and wrapping the blanket tighter around him, trying to still his shaking. Ringo sighed and moved his hand back to George’s head, brushing his hair out of his eyes again and holding it out of the way. He leaned forward, ghosting his lips against George’s forehead, not quite kissing him, just resting his lips there and getting an impression of how warm the other man was.

George’s eyelids fluttered slightly at the touch of sun-chapped lips to his brow, Ringo’s slight breaths oddly soothing against his abused skin. He licked his own dry lips, willing his body to stay still.

Ringo pulled away after a pause, hissing softly through his teeth. “Christ, you’re burnin’ up.”

George laughed, a shaky, mirthless chuckle; eyes fixed on the floor. “I w-wish I felt it.”

Ringo felt a dull ache in his chest knowing that George was so out of sorts. He trailed his fingers down from George’s forehead, resting his palm over the other man’s cheek. He tried to catch his eyes, searching, at a loss for what to say, what he could do to help.

George blinked several times, looking up from the floor and meeting eyes that still shown that special kind of blue despite the heavy shadows cast over Ringo’s face. He sighed, a small, gasping little thing, and leaned slightly into the touch. “You’re warm.” He swallowed hard, trying in vain to still his relentless shivers.

“Too warm for my liking.” Ringo blinked, taken by a sudden idea. He moved his hand from George’s cheek and carefully detangled the guitarist’s callused fingers from around the kettle, setting it aside after with little care for where. He took both of George’s hands in his own and rose to his feet again, tugging gently.

George followed Ringo’s lead, but paused, hit by the same near delirium that Ringo had experienced earlier. His knees began to wobble and he swayed, dangerously close to fainting.

“Whoa, hey,” Ringo caught George just as he was about to fall, wrapping his arms around thin hips and holding him still, voice gentle. “Steady there.”

The guitarist practically collapsed against Ringo, still gripping tightly at the blanket. He closed his eyes as shadows began to overtake his vision, whimpering very faintly and resting his chin on Ringo’s shoulder; his voice an exhausted whisper. “I hate th-this.”

Ringo chewed his lip then closed his eyes. He pulled the other man a bit closer for a proper hug, one hand rubbing gently at his back. “You’ll be alright. I’m here.”

They stayed like that for what seemed like a long time, silence and shadows covering them as well as any quilt. Both were unwilling to move, one afraid of falling, the other still searching for a way to help. After a long, steady breath George pulled away, rubbing his eyes with one hand as his vision returned, his shuddering slowing to a slight quiver.

Ringo kept one arm around George’s waist, hand resting over a hip, still afraid of him losing balance again. He searched George’s eyes, trying to keep worry out of his own with a hint of a smile. “Alright to move?”

George just nodded, tired of how weak his voice sounded even to his own ears.

They made their way slowly through the house; Ringo’s arm an ever-present, steadying weight around George’s waist, George leaning slightly against Ringo for support. The shorter man kept their pace slow, quiet, loath to wake any of the others.

They paused outside Ringo’s room, and George raised a questioning eyebrow.

Ringo shrugged as he led them inside, closing the door behind them with a soft click. He tried to keep his voice light as he sat George down on his bed, not wanting him to over think anything. “You’re cold. I’m warm. Might as well balance each other.”

George shifted and lay down, tugging Ringo’s blanket over his own and curling up into a ball beneath them. His eyes were just fluttering closed when he blinked, brow furrowing as he looked up at Ringo. “Hey, wait, I thought you said I was b-burnin’ up.”

Ringo smiled as he lifted up the covers and joined George beneath them, scooting close and draping an arm loosely over his friend. “Did I?”

There was a curious light in Ringo’s eyes that caused George to shake his head. “Just great, Ring, overheat and die; make us go through all the trouble of finding yet another drummer.”

Ringo shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “Better than you freezing to death; easier to find another drummer than replace you.”

“Shut up.”

Ringo chuckled softly. “Sleep.”

“I would if you’d shut up.”

George’s eyes drifted shut, his breathing slowly becoming more even, chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. Ringo smiled softly to himself as he watched George sleep; his eyelids fluttering gently, lips slightly parted as if to sigh.

Ringo’s smile slowly faded and he finally let his worry show properly. He brought a hand up and rested it feather light over George’s cheek, thoughtfully trailing his thumb over a well-defined cheekbone.

“Please feel better.” His voice was a whisper, barely more audible than a breath. His own eyes closed as he leaned forward slightly, giving George the softest of kisses before pulling away and letting his head settled down into his pillow.

“Rich?”

Ringo blinked his eyes open a crack, humming sleepily in response.

“D’you just kiss me?”

The drummer yawned and closed his eyes again. “Sleep, George.”

A long stretch of silence was followed by George shaking his head, yawning himself. He shifted a bit closer, resting a hand casually over Ringo’s hip. “Next time, make sure’m awake.”

Ringo’s eyes opened once more, curiosity plainly evident in them, mingled with a somewhat jittery nervousness. George met his eyes steadily, lopsided grin firmly in place.

Ringo looked down, studying George’s lips briefly before looking back up and meeting his eyes again. He cleared his throat softly and licked his lips, voice scratchy. “You’re awake now.”

“I am.”