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George loves Ringo; he knows it, he swears it, and it isn't anyone's fault he’s got so many allergies. But time is ticking, he’s got to go shopping, and Ringo’s drunk too much wine to do anything but smile at him.
“Sourdough.”
“Whuh.”
“ ‘s a kind of bread.”
“Why would ye wanna eat a sour dough.” Ringo hiccups.
“Right,” George thinks. “Cheese.”
Ringo flicks up his peace sign.
“No, can you eat cheese?”
“Why?”
“I wanna know.”
The blue eyes that will be the death of George blink once, twice, then so quickly there’s no doubt that Ringo’s batting his lashes. George sighs.
“Pleeeeeeease?”
“What’re you cookin’ up?”
“I’ll know when you tell me.”
Ringo muses over this— hopefully, seeing as their anniversary morning is in nine-odd hours and the supermarket closing’s in far less. His dopey grin turns softer and softer.
“Where’s…” Ringo laughs, “cheese come from?”
“A cow.”
“Ohhh. No then.”
“Okay, what about—”
“I know what yer up to,” Ringo giggles. Fucking hell, he giggles. Never mind the reveal, the sound itself threatens to throttle George by the heart. “It’ll be the boringest, boringest meal…”
“No it won’t.”
“Yes it will.” Ringo surges up and kisses him full on the mouth, to which George barely has any time to respond before Ringo adds:
“Goat’s.”
“Wh— what?”
“Goat’s cheese.”
“Good God, Ritchie,” George snickers.
“I can’t have a cow’s.”
“Well, thank you,” George has to bite his cheeks to stop himself falling off their sofa and from Ringo’s embrace. “That’s not so boring.”
“Mmm,” Ringo nuzzles against his neck. “I know.”