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“So, how was he?”
Ringo turned at the sound of George’s voice, pressing his cigarette to his lips in greeting. “What?”
George moved to stand beside Ringo, leaning heavily on the balcony railing and turning his face to the setting sun. Ringo was once again struck by just how beautiful – for no other word could describe it properly – his friend had become, surpassing them all in that respect, much to Paul’s annoyance.
George gestured vaguely with his own cigarette, dull whips of smoke trailing off into the foreign skyline. “The drummer… Tré, was it?”
Ringo blinked, not expecting George to bring up their strange visitors. He shrugged and mirrored George’s lean on the railing, dragging slowly and speaking on the exhale. “He was different. A touch crazy, but that could just be because of the difference in time.”
George nodded, keeping his eyes on the sunset. “Better?”
“Better than what?” Ringo turned his head, studying the other man’s profile in the fading light. George’s eyes were closed, his face giving away nothing. The drummer sighed, inching his hand over and covering George’s long fingers with his own.
“You don’t want me to answer that, just like I don’t care to know about Jason.”
George blinked, turning to face him, and Ringo almost thought he caught a glimpse of tears in his friend’s eyes. He squeezed his hand lightly, shuffling a bit closer and resting his chin on George’s shoulder. “Love you.”
George nodded, his hair brushing gently against Ringo’s cheek.