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He wasn’t sure what he expected when he came back, but it wasn’t this.
You weren’t supposed to quit your band and come back three weeks later to the studio covered wall-to-wall in flowers. You weren’t supposed to come back at all, really.
Ringo wondered if they thought less of him for being so quick to agree and return, but maybe they were more occupied between the thought of that and losing the band altogether. No room in that headspace to make your drummer feel inadequate all over again.
George had outdone himself. Ringo knew it was George who had done the flowers because that wasn’t really John or Paul’s style, and actually, they’d probably rather not have flowers covering the studio anyway.
Ringo liked George. He liked that George listened to him, he liked that he always made a point to talk kindly or at all to him, and at least when he was mean, he was mean in a different way. Ringo would take being ignored for a week over Paul telling him how awful his drumming had gotten any day.
What a list of things to choose from.
“It’s lovely,” Ringo said, turning to the guitarist beside him.
“Thank you,” George smiled. It was a strange, tight, nervous sort of smile, which Ringo wouldn’t expect from George. He was supposed to have that quiet confidence. The kind that Ringo could hide behind if he really needed to. The kind he found comfort in across the studio when John and Paul were at it again and all George did was shoot him a tiny little look that said just keep your eyes on me, it’ll be okay.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” George replied. He was still nervous. “Can I show you it all?”
“Yeah,” Ringo agreed easily. If George made an effort to listen pleasantly to him, then he could make an effort to listen pleasantly to George.
He wasn’t sure when it was that George had gotten so interested in nature. Maybe he always had been, and Ringo had just missed it between the seas and seas of steel and copper and shiny gold that had been his life for just about seven years now. Maybe it had something to do with acid and India and all that, but Ringo didn’t know that much about it, really.
All he knew was that it made him happy to see George explaining it to him; the different flowers he’d selected and placed in big vases all around the studio, bunched together in groups of pretty colors; left on the floor or on the chairs or on the window sill or wherever they would fit. It smelled like Valentine’s day or that aisle of public stores where they kept the perfume. (Not that Ringo particularly went to so many stores anymore, but he still knew what they smelled like. It’s a thing you can’t forget).
“What do they mean?” he asked, and George looked up at him.
“Come again?” he asked, though he had definitely heard what Ringo said.
“Y’know… like flower language. I remember you explaining something like that back…” Well actually, it had really been months ago now, hadn’t it? That wasn’t important. “Well back a while… Do these mean things?”
George’s face took on a funny color. Ringo realized that he was blushing, which George never did. When he got embarrassed he’d look down to the floor or toe the carpet or let out that little giggle of his, but blushing was a Paul thing. Not a George thing.
“Uhh… yes,” George answered.
“Tell me?”
“Sure,” but the answer was uneasy, and it made Ringo uneasy too. Why would George be so worried to tell him what a few flowers meant?
“Here,” Ringo said, picking up what he was pretty sure was a sunflower from a purple container by the amps in the corner, “What does this one mean?”
“A lot of things,” George chuckled, and it was that same sort of noise he made when he was nervous. Ringo was suspicious, but still not sure of what.
“Mostly loyalty, and… vitality, and well, happiness, I guess.”
Ringo smiled at him as if to encourage some more forthcoming behavior.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asked.
George might have muttered something like it’s about to be, under his breath, but Ringo couldn’t quite hear.
He picked up a whole bouquet of pink tulips from the window sill, and said, “These are for friendship and good wishes.”
Ringo thought this was appropriate. George removed one of the tulips from the bouquet and gave it to him, and he took it gently in his hand and smelled it. Just like the perfume aisle.
As George went through many more flower meanings, he moved. Ringo followed as they danced across the room, in between the many vases and piles of beautiful blooms. Past the piano and around the tall mics. Down by the window to the sound booth and out around the coiled wire on the floor. They were slowly making their way to Ringo’s kit in the other corner. Each flower was one step closer there.
They all meant such wonderful things. These sweet peas were for gratitude, those calla-lilies were for reunion, the various yellow roses tucked into different places around the studio were friendship again.
There seemed to be a sort of circle of bouquets around Ringo’s drum set, and a few individual white roses spelled his name out across the snare and tom drums.
“What do those mean?” he asked.
“Eternity,” George muttered. That nervous demeanor of his was back.
The first bouquet was of many different shades of lilacs. George picked it up and placed it in Ringo’s hands.
“New love,” he said before Ringo could ask. Why on earth would George give him flowers that meant that? “Alstroemeria,” he said, placing a bouquet of pink flowers on top of the lilacs. “Strong bonds.”
“Forget-me-nots,” and a bunch of tiny blue flowers was placed on top of the alstroemeria. “That one’s pretty self-explanatory, but it also means faithfulness.”
Ringo was utterly confused. Next was a lovely bouquet of deep red roses, but Ringo’s arms were full.
“George, I don’t think I can carry all of these…” he said.
“Oh,” George replied, seeming to just realize that Ringo’s arms were piled high with the blooms, “Well… put them down on that chair over there, we still have a few more to go.”
Until what? Ringo thought.
“Roses,” George said, and instead of putting the whole bundle into Ringo’s arms, he removed one from the center and handed it to him. “Love.”
Love.
“White camellia,” he said, “You’re adorable.” Ringo’s brain looped the words, but he couldn’t process them at all. The white blossoms in his hand appeared to not know the answer to his questions either, but all he could do was stare desperately at it.
“Primrose,” George said, placing the big yellow and red flowers in Ringo’s hand. “I can’t live without you.” Yet again, all Ringo’s mind did was play the words around over and over in his mind, like an old record.
I—can’t—live—without—you.
“George, what—?” Ringo started to ask, finding his voice somewhere underneath all that buried feeling.
“Shh,” George said, putting a finger to Ringo’s lips. “Just two more. Lilies of the valley. Devotion,” George said.
Ringo took the lilies in his hands and looked at them. George bent down to pick a big bouquet off the floor and Ringo looked around the room again.
George had done this. George had taken the time to come here and put these all out, find out what they meant, and bothered to remember them. George cared enough about Ringo to do this.
That’s why when he stood back up, Ringo didn’t even let him say whatever it was he was going to say before placing his burden down, taking the younger man by his hips, and kissing him.
The flowers in George’s hands crushed between their chests, but it didn’t even matter anymore. Instead of confusion and worry circling through their minds, it was just a far-off thought of, oh, this is nice… really nice…
Ringo wasn’t sure how long they’d been kissing when their lungs finally burned with the need for fresh oxygen again.
“Red chrysanthemums,” George said, voice hoarse and oh-so-sexy, pushing the flowers that were still in his hands to Ringo’s chest, “I love you.”
“I got that,” Ringo smiled. Then, “Me too. I love… you too.” George looked at him.
His mouth twitched and he looked very much like he wanted to say something important, so Ringo set the flowers down on the floor and slipped his hand into the other man’s.
“I- I don’t know what I’m supposed to say now,” George said softly, “I hadn’t really expected that you’d even bother to stay after a few of those.”
“I don’t know what to say either,” Ringo sighed with a giggle in his voice. For grown men, they sure as shit didn’t know how to talk about their feelings.
“Can we kiss again?” George asked. “I liked that part.”
“Sure,” Ringo laughed, putting his hand on George’s face.
Their lips came within a few inches of each other but their eyes were still open, and it was like being a teenager again, not knowing what they were doing, but wanting desperately to do it anyway.
One small kiss led to two. Two led to four. Four turned into one long one where George put his hands on Ringo’s hips and Ringo put his in George’s hair, and they had to stop before that turned into something no one would like to be caught doing in the studio.
“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” Ringo said, a lazy smile slipping across his face as they finally pulled away. George took his hand and laced their fingers together.
“Didn’t you?” George giggled.
Ringo tried to remember, but whenever he remembered George, all he could remember was just… George. All his little mannerisms, the quirks in his speech, the habits he liked to keep up, the way he took his tea… He thought harder. Sharing enough space with George to become accustomed to his mannerisms, listening to his voice enough to develop an ear for the quirks, learning his habits till they were practically his own, him always asking if Ringo cared for a cup of tea when he made his own.
George had maybe always felt this way. Maybe… so had he.
“I’m sorry that we made you feel like an outsider, Ringo,” George said. “I’m sorry I didn’t feel like I could tell you how I felt until I realized… well I guess since I realized you could just leave. I’m sorry for a lot.”
“Me too,” Ringo said. “I’m sorry for… leaving, I think. And not realizing that you guys must feel like that too sometimes. I’m sorry I didn’t realize how I felt about you earlier.”
“It’s okay. Took me a while too, y’know… course it did.”
Ringo took this to mean about him being a man, which didn’t bother him much. If you loved someone, you loved them, it didn’t matter who they were.
“Well, I’m glad you figured it out.”
“Me too,” George whispered, and leaned in again, lips once again breaths away from Ringo’s.
A sound from the other side of the studio startled them out of position. John picked up a bucket of cream-colored flowers and set them down in a different place.
“George, this is a grand gesture and all, but maybe not the best for making music? Which we can do now…?”
“Yeah, yeah,” George laughed. “Help me?” he asked Ringo.
“Where are we going to put them all?”
“Our cars? Or we could put them out on the street for people to take home.”
“I like that idea better,” Ringo smiled. He checked to make sure that John, and Paul who had come into the studio with a cup of tea and a scowl, weren’t looking, and then pecked George on the mouth.
“Stealing kisses and giving away flowers,” George mused with a benevolent smirk.
“Could be our catchphrase,” Ringo said.
They each picked up a few bouquets and headed out the front door. (Another kiss was stolen outside the studio door, and another in the hallway, and another on the staircase, and another just outside the building, and…)