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1964
George couldn’t believe this.
It was all rumor, of course, because rumor was the language of his life now, but to George’s concert-addled mind, rumor was as good as truth. Pattie… with another man? It didn’t even matter who exactly had told George this startling information, it was immediately accepted.
“You alrigh’?” Paul asked, putting his bass away and handing it to Neil.
“Fine,” George said. He should say something, but what would he say? Hey Paul, you ever wonder if your great girlfriend might just not be that great? Especially because Paul knew damn well that whoever George had entertained in his room last night was certainly not Pattie.
Which begged further of George to wonder why he cared if Pattie might be seeing someone else. Why should he care if he did it himself anyway? He would have a crisis over his masculinity, maybe. And what a crisis to have, reserved just for ever-the-fucking-famous George Harrison. God, who had he become?
So instead of going home, something his aching bones and cloudy head yearned for, George chased John and Pete to their car and hopped in.
“Ey, little Georgie’s decided to join the big boys tonight!” John cried, clapping George on the back. The younger man groaned and leaned his head against the window. There was comfort in the cold glass that he knew he wouldn’t find in his bandmates. They wouldn’t understand. Who could?
Except there was no one to ask these stupid internal questions, so George just shut up for the rest of the ride to the undoubtedly shitty bar the others had picked. The lights of the city flashed by in streams of brightness, and George closed his eyes. Maybe he could’ve slept a little if not for the violent press of anxiety in his chest. Was he not enough of a lover?
As soon as he stepped into the bar, George regretted his choice. The place was pretty much packed, and Pete and John ditched him for the bar almost immediately. He sighed. What a night he’d set himself up for. Already there were people eyeing him from across the room, and he knew he would probably have to speak to them against his will.
Suddenly, a low voice whispered in his ear, “Want to go somewhere quieter?”
George turned toward the voice, finding a short man with stunning blue eyes clasping his jacket.
“I don’t know who you are.”
The man just laughed, letting go of George. “Sure,” he said, “but I know who you are, and I bet that you’d like to get away from all this.” He gestured around the room and George couldn’t help but agree.
“Alrigh’ then,” he sighed, “Suppose it’s no harm.”
Typically, this went against every natural instinct George had, but there was something so curious and intriguing about this stranger that he couldn’t help but follow. The man led George through a doorway and into another part of the bar that was already much less rowdy than the other. Still, they pushed on through tables of people until they reached the very back of room. There, no one else but them occupied the many empty seats.
George dramatically pulled out a chair at one of the tables and motioned for the man to sit. He blushed but sat anyway, and George took the seat next to him. A waiter materialized by their table and George ordered a pint of beer for each of them and three shots. Tonight was a night he’d rather not spend sober.
“You know me then?” he asked the man.
“Course I know you.”
George couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped past his lips. “You a fan?”
The stranger blushed, but nodded slowly, looking like he wanted to hide his face in his hands.
“Hey, hey, it’s nothin’ to be embarrassed about,” George said, soothing. “We love our fans, do we not?”
The man just shrugged, playing off the awkwardness with a hurried introduction. “‘M Ringo,” he said, reaching out his hand as if to start anew.
“Nice to meet you Ringo,” George said, shaking his hand, smiling.
The waiter came back with a tray of drinks, grinning strangely at noticing who he was serving. George glared at him a little bit as he left, but he didn’t see.
“Any particular reason you decided to come to my rescue tonight?” George asked once the waiter was out of earshot. He downed a shot before turning his attention back to the other man.
Ringo blushed again, and George was starting to think it was quite a cute look on him. He was? “You seemed a little like you needed saving ‘s all.”
“Oh yeah?” George asked, taking another shot and leaning over the table, propping his head up on his elbow. “Why’s that?”
“Suppose it just didn’t seem like a night you wanted to be social or… y’know.”
George’s head was becoming delightfully cloudy already, and he leaned further over the table. “You’re awfully smart, aren’t you? Know a lot about me…”
Ringo looked down and twiddled a ring on his finger. The gleaming of it in the light made George’s head spin a little bit. God, he was absolutely losing it, wasn’t he? Fuck.
“You’re damn right, though,” he conceded, starting on a pint of beer. Belatedly, he handed Ringo the last shot. (And if Ringo dumped it into an empty glass at the table, that went unnoticed by George.) “I hate this rubbish sometimes,” he said, motioning to the crowds. “People and… pictures and everyone always wanting just a scrap of attention.” Ringo looked ashamed, and George hurried to cover his mistake. “Not you, though, don’t worry.” He smiled. He hoped it helped.
“You know…” George slurred, “You’re different. I’ve been talking too much, haven’t I? Tell me something about yourself, go on.”
Ringo’s signature blush crawled up his neck and if George hadn’t just said he would let him speak, he would have said something about how nice it looked on him. He would have?
“Well…” his voice was deep and undeniably sexy, something George’s mind wasn’t going to let him let go of any time soon, “‘M from Liverpool too, used to see you play around there. I guess I was a fan from the very start.”
“Yeah?”
Ringo nodded. “I don’ know what else is important,” he said, laughing, “I work at the docks. Wish I didn’ but I do.”
“ I wish I wasn’t a star, y’know,” George said, having finished his beer in the time Ringo was talking. “Coulda been an elect- electrician instead, but nah, I just had to be world-famous an’ all that.” He hiccuped and Ringo looked on awkwardly.
“Loosen up, love,” George giggled, clapping him on the back. “How bout a girl? D’ye have a girl?”
“Sure,” Ringo agreed, but he didn’t sound much like it.
“She nice?”
“One o’ the nicest I’ve ever met anyway.”
“Good… that’s good. I’ve gotta girl. Can’t tell if she’s nice or if she- she’s not.”
“No?”
“Nah, think she might be steppin’ out on me. Jus’ a rumor I heard but I don’ know if it it’s one of those rumors you’re supposed to believe or one you’re supposed to toss out an’ say, ‘that’s jus’ a load of rubbish’ at.” George’s words tumbled out of his mouth faster than his brain could tell them not to do. It felt nice talking to someone who was really listening. And, even in this state, George could tell Ringo was. He had his head cocked to the side, mirroring George’s early position with his head propped up on his elbow. His eyes weren’t glazed over in wonder or boredom, but instead traveled George’s face, capturing each hint of an emotion that passed over the drunken landscape.
So maybe it was the drink that made George do it.
“You ever cheated on anyone?” George asked.
Or maybe it was the atmosphere of the night and the heat of the rumor and how loud it had become in the bar.
“No,” Ringo said.
Maybe still it was that look, just the way Ringo had looked at him, not quite like he held the world but maybe like he would trust him enough to hand it to him.
Maybe that was why George said, “Do you want to?” before not waiting for Ringo’s answer and kissing him anyway, even if he hadn’t wanted to.
It was clear in a moment, though, that he did, that he must have wanted it, because Ringo was kissing back and George felt strangely free. Even though someone could see them and this was wrong and– oh fuck he wished Ringo would do that again.
Later on, after the beauty and amazement, George will forget. He will forget breaking apart with Ringo’s hands in his hair, and the awkward chuckle they shared. He will forget spending another hour talking on nothing and everything, drawing swirly patterns with his fingers into Ringo’s palm. He will forget Ringo saying he needed to go home and could he call George a cab because he thinks the car took John and Pete and their girls already.
The next morning, George won’t remember. And he’ll call Pattie, but they won’t talk about the rumor, and they never will.
George will forget for a long time. But five years later, there will be a short man in a long dark coat with a bunch of red and purple flowers in his hand standing outside the studio, waiting to make George remember.