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Ringo tightened his grip on George’s waist, holding the stumbling younger man upright. He would have liked to warn George’s band mates that he was taking the scrawny guitarist out for air, but none of the three had been near at hand while George was smashing a beer bottle on the bar to use as a probable weapon.
With a sigh, Ringo pressed George against a damp brick wall. The moment his hand left George’s shoulder, George slumped, crumpling to the ground. Ringo looked down at him for a moment, shaking his head, and then crouched down in front of him.
George looked up through his limp fringe as Ringo took two cigarettes out of his pack, lighting them both with one match. He dragged on both before taking one and sticking it between George’s lips.
A moment passed in silence, George inhaling and exhaling without movement, the steady wisps of smoke the only sign that he was even still conscious.
“How much ‘ave ye had, George?”
George finally shifted, lifting both hands and examining his fingers, considering each digit carefully, the cigarette jerking slightly as he mumbled an indecipherable monologue before finally shrugging his shoulders, dropping his hands again. Ringo sighed once more.
“Wot were ye thinkin’?”
George grumbled again for a moment. He lifted his eyes, meeting Ringo’s worried gaze. Vague guilt washed over him, he struggled to sit up properly, leaning against the wall and taking the cigarette between two fingers.
“’e was bein’ rude.”
“Rude enough for yet to get yer arse beat?”
George looked down again.
“Ye dunnae even speak German, George.”
“’e was speakin’ English.”
Ringo sat back on his heels, watching George for a moment, considering the flush on the guitarist’s cheeks, wondering idly whether the colour was due to the liquor or more related to the vague stammer in George’s voice.
“Wot’d ‘e say, George?”
George leaned heavily back against the wall, using the bricks to steady himself as he struggled to his feet. Dropping the spent filter to the damp ground, he stopped on the bright ember as he stumbled away, fingers trailing against the wall for balance.
Ringo watched his progress for a moment before standing, shadowing George as he tripped over non-existent cracks in the pavement.
“George, talk to me.”
George spun to glare at the persistent drummer, quickly losing his balance and toppling over. Ringo stepped forward, slipping his arms around George, catching him. George growled faintly but allowed himself to lean against the solid drummer.
“George...”
“Wot’s wrong with it, Rich? Wot’s wrong with followin’ yer heart?”
“George, wot are ye on abou’?”
George tiled his head back, locking eyes with Ringo. His eyes flashed gently, asking a silent question, a query with only one kind of answer.
They moved as one, shifting together, fitting like pieces of a puzzle, lips pressing together as if meant to be. George’s hands splayed against Ringo’s chest, not pushing away but flexing needily, asking for more; asking, pleading with his palms even as his lips parted.
Ringo complied, deepening the kiss slowly, tasting the cheap lager, the bitter whiskey, the dark smoke all muddled and lingering in George’s mouth. Ringo’s arms reflexively tightened around George’s waist, George’s hands slid around to grip instead at Ringo’s back, their chests pressing firmly together. Quiet sounds of near-passion exchanged mouths, George’s heart slowing and Ringo’s speeding up until they beat in unison, and the kiss lingered, spreading across an eternity.
A heavy door down the alley slammed, the pair jumped apart as quickly as they had slipped together. Ringo knew now where the flush that had coloured George’s cheeks had come from, as it was now matched on his own face. Ringo frowned slightly as he looked at George and realised that the younger man was shaking, tears in his eyes. Ringo stepped closer to George, reaching for him.
This time George fell into his arms willingly, pressing his face into the crook of Ringo’s neck.
“Wot’s wrong with likin’ blokes, Rich?” he murmured against Ringo’s shoulder, “Why, why’s bein’ queer so wrong?”
Ringo sighed, closing his eyes as he held the scrawny boy against him, speaking half into the air.
“There’s nothin’ wrong with it, George. There’s nothin’ wrong.”
George leaned back again, one tear slipping down his cheek. Ringo took the shining drop upon his fingertip.
“Nothin’ wrong s’long as it feels right.”
George’s voice was shaking when he spoke again.
“Does this feel right to you, Rich? Does it?”
Ringo smiled weakly, pressing his lips against George’s forehead.
“I want this to be right, George. Do you?”
A pause, as long as the eternity spent in the kiss. Blue met brown and shone, hearts still beating in tandem.
“It is.”