Work Text:
-George (Anthology, pg 242, column 1)
The silence after the confession was heavy, strained. Both men wanted to speak. Neither felt able.
“Why, Rich?” George’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his hands clenching and unclenching, fisting nervously in the pockets of his coat. “Why John?”
Ringo was quiet for a long time, gathering his words, trying to stay calm, he had so much he wanted to say; so much hurt he selfishly wanted the other man to feel.
He hated feeling selfish.
He licked his dry, cracked lips before speaking, a forced calm lacing his words. “Why not John? How is he any different from the birds?”
“Because it’s John.” George looked down, studying his shoes, the cracks between the floorboards, anything to keep his eyes off the older man.
Ringo gaped at George, he truly didn’t see.
“He was lonely, George, he needed me.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” George’s voice was flat, hollow, not at all the demanding tone he’d hoped for.
Ringo sighed, shifted on his feet. “It was what we both needed at the time. We were just friends being there for each other. We weren’t falling in love.”
Ringo’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, and George blinked, looking up on reflex and meeting Ringo’s eyes. What he saw there nearly broke his heart all over again. Those eyes that usually held such light were clouded, filled not with anger, but a dull sorrow.
Ringo sighed as he reached for the door. “Go back to India, George.”