Work Text:
(1965)- On the way to their hotel
Lennon watched as one of the raindrops quickly rolled down the car window. He tapped against the glass lazily with his finger, trying to get some to go faster than the others. It was a long drive to the hotel, and after a long day of running from screaming fans and arguing with his manager, all he wanted to do was lay down, and get stoned. There was nothing to do in this damned car. He wondered why Epstein had booked them so far away from the concert arena. He had said that it was for safety or something, but John hadn’t really been paying attention, and even if he had cared to hear the reason, it didn’t matter. He was tired, and wanted to get as high as possible as quickly as possible. But until he was out of this car, he had nothing to do but absentmindedly race raindrops. Damn. His one lost.
He turned from the window to see if Paul or George could get him out of this boredom. No such luck. To his dismay, both Paul and George were fast asleep. It had been a long day for them too. But it was still frustrating. Lennon ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “There’s nothing to do in this damned car,” he thought. He had half a mind to kick Paul and wake him up. “But,” he stopped himself. That would be rude. And even abrasive, cheeky “John Lennon” would rather have his best friend get his beauty sleep than be rudely awakened by his frustrating mate.
John stretched his back and then looked to his right. Sitting next to him was his friend Ringo. His hand was resting on the seat beside his leg, and the other one was on his chin. John thought he was asleep by how still he was, but looking at him more closely John realised he was just listening to music. He noticed the long cord of a pair of earbuds coming from under his hair, into a small radio resting on his lap.
“Hey Rings,” he said, tapping the other man’s shoulder. Ringo turned around, taking one of the speakers out of his ear. He had his signature expression; sad, puppy-dog eyes, and a pouty mouth. “Jesus,” John thought. Was Ringo ok? He could never tell. One minute he looked like a sad baby, and the next he had a big, goofy grin. It was frustrating to always feel so clueless.
“Yea John?” Ringo said.
“I just…” John wanted to complain about Paul and George, but Ringo’s expression got to him.
“Are you okay?”
Ringo grinned and let out a small laugh. “Of course I am!” He responded. There it was again! An instant change of expression. “Jus’ listening to me music,” he said, proudly holding up his radio. “Ah,” John said meekly. He felt so stupid. Of course Ringo was okay! He was so honest with his feelings, and yet John still couldn’t interpret them.
“Would you like to hear?” Ringo asked, holding out an earbud. John hesitantly grabbed it. “Sure,” he said. Anything would be better than watching stupid raindrops. He put the speaker in his ear, and the music slowly faded in. It was a bit grainy, almost like the signal was too far away.
“Tell the truth, tell the truth, well you know what you done to me, you made me fall for you.”
The lady’s voice on the other end was powerful and intense. She was almost yelling out the lyrics. John thought it sounded convoluted. But there was nothing else to do, and Ringo seemed to enjoy the song, so John continued to listen.
The car bumped along the road and hit a puddle. There was still a long way to go.
“If I could, I surely would, I would roll up around you if I thought it would do any good.”
John felt weirdly connected to Ringo. Well, he was, through the earbuds, but it felt different to him. Oddly uncomfortable. Ringo was bobbing his head along to the music, and every time he moved John could feel the cord tugging at his ear. He leaned in closer to avoid what would be an embarrassing moment if the earphone popped out.
“Loving you, feelings started, but I’m goin’ to stop it.”
John kicked his legs out, accidentally hitting Paul’s foot in the process. He held his breath. Paul shifted and grimaced in his sleep, but after a second he settled back down and leaned into George’s shoulder. “Whew.” John was safe. For now. He didn’t have enough room in this tiny cab. He could just barely stretch his legs, and being so close to everyone else was making him sweat.
“If I could, I surely would…If I thought it would do any good.”
To be honest, John wasn’t a huge fan of the song, and every second that passed he felt more uncomfortable. He felt suffocated in the enclosed space with his bandmates. He just wished that Paul would wake up. Talking to him would make the time pass faster.
He imagined he was too close to Ringo. He could feel the heat radiating off the drummer’s face. Why did they have to wear such stuffy suits? Epstein had completely messed with their image, and John was still angry about it sometimes. He tugged at his collar and after loosening his tie, abruptly ripped it off.
“Why don’t you tell the truth? Tell the truth…”
…
Ringo turned to John and noticed how red his face was. Seeming to read his mind, he silently rolled the window down a couple inches. A few raindrops hit him in the face, but he didn’t mind. He could tell John relaxed a bit because he settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.
He sighed. “Thanks mate.”
“Not a problem,” Ringo responded, smiling.
…
The cool air passing through the window definitely made John feel better. He relaxed into the plush car seat and let his mind wander. There wasn’t much else to do before they got to their hotel. He couldn’t wait to get as high as the moon when he arrived. He’d have his weed, a ciggy, a change of clothes, the list went on and on, and he silently smiled to himself, imagining everything that was waiting for him. He just had to get there first. “Unfortunately,” he thought, “I’m still stuck with these guys for now. He glanced at George and Paul sleeping in front of him. George’s head was resting on Paul’s shoulder, and Paul’s head was on top of the other mans.
“Comfy,” John bitterly thought. But why was he angry? It’s not like he was jealous or anything. It’s not like he wanted to be cuddling his mate. It’s not like he wished he was comfortable enough to get that close to his friends. “It’s not like I wanna hold his hand,” he thought, glancing down at Ringo’s palm resting on the seat.
“Why don’t you tell the truth? Tell the truth…”
John stopped and mentally cringed. He needed to think about getting high as fuck, not fucking his-
Jesus Christ. That wasn't an image he needed. Internally he was panicking. Usually the screaming fans or the promise of weed was enough to distract him from his frequent “queer musings” as he had come to call them. But being in this stuffy, hot car was messing with him. He dabbed his forehead with his sleeve. He was sweating even though the window was open.
He wanted to take out the earbud that was connecting him to the man that was causing all of this panic. But he worried that would be weird. He didn’t want to make Ringo sad, but he really hated this song. It sounded too abrasive. He didn’t care for the lyrics either.
“And I know, I know baby. Every day, every night, whooah hold me tight.”
Why did Ringo like this crap? It wasn’t anything entirely special to John. He could think of four other songs in the moment that were better. John made a mental note to tell Ringo about them later. But oh, Ringo looked so happy listening to this…junk. It was obviously a favourite of his. He was still staring out the window, slightly nodding his head to the beat. He seemed lost in his thoughts.
“Maybe he won’t notice if I…” John stopped himself, his hand hovering inches above Ringo's. What was he doing? His intrusive thoughts were turning into actions. That couldn’t happen. He looked over at Paul and George, his heart racing.
“Stop lying, (tell the truth) stop lying, whooah, (tell the truth.)”
Fuck it.
John gingerly placed his hand on top of Ringo’s, and closed his eyes. He hoped he could blame a lack of sleep for his actions when Ringo got mad at him.
But Oh! Ringo’s hand was much softer than John had expected. And his rings added a smooth, cooling sensation to John’s sweaty palm. He nervously waited for a reaction, mentally preparing a number of excuses he could use when Ringo would undoubtedly pull away.
John was thrown from his thoughts, however, when he suddenly realised, “Ringo hasn’t pulled away…” Instead, he felt 4 calloused fingers slowly wrap around his hand and squeeze it gently, but firmly.
John opened his eyes in surprise and stared at Ringo, who hadn’t moved from his original spot. His gaze was fixed to the window intensely. John thought the drummer must’ve stared a hole right through the glass.
John dared to speak, now entirely too nervous to pull away. “...Rings?” He asked. Ringo coughed and slowly turned around.
*mhm* “Ye-yes John?”
John sat with his mouth agape, finding it hard to form words. Instead all he could do was swallow thickly and glance down at their hands. Ringo chuckled nervously.
“Well, I’m not letting go lad.” He spoke barely above a whisper.
John looked back up at Ringo, his face now an obviously darker shade of red than it was previously. “Your uh… your music is shit,” was all he could manage to stumble out.
There was a long pause, before Ringo snorted, and burst out laughing. He covered his mouth, trying not to make too much noise.
“What?” John protested, slightly grinning because he couldn’t help himself. Ringo’s eyes began to water as he continued to laugh his arse off.
“Hey shut it!” John loudly whispered, playfully punching Ringo in the side. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but Ringo wasn’t mad at him, which was a huge relief. However, the situation at hand had become very confusing.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Richard said, barely able to breathe because his sides hurt too much. Ringo held John’s hand tighter and eventually quieted down, tears now freely dripping down his face. “I’m sorry lad. I just wasn’t expecting that,” he said, wiping his eyes with his free hand. He rolled his head back and chuckled, squeezing John’s hand again. He sighed. “Out of everything that’s happened tonight, this was the thing I least expected.” He smiled to himself, turning to John. “But it’s…” he trailed off.
“It’s comfy.” John finished. “I mean it’s not cuddling but it’s nice!” John slammed his mouth shut. He could see Ringo’s blue eyes grow wide as he tried to process what John had just said. Damn him and his lack of self-control. Ringo let go of his hand. John had really done it now. Had he gone too far? He felt hot again.
His question was answered, however, when the man next to him suddenly wrapped his small arm over John’s shoulder and pulled him in closer.
“Cuddling, huh?” He quipped.
Ringo reached over and let his other hand roam the top of John’s leg. It came to rest on his thigh. John’s heart was currently beating itself out of his chest. The cold air from the window was no help anymore. He felt so cramped. He could almost feel the already small cab shrinking down and crushing him. Squeezing the life out of him. Paul and George were still off in their own little dreamworld, and here he was, John Lennon, hopelessly lost and panicky being held by a man he swore he had no feelings for. Ringo moved his face entirely too close to Johns, and whispered to him. “Ye can cuddle me if ye like John. Because-” he paused. Maybe Ringo was just as nervous as John? The thought of that made him feel better. Maybe Ringo was just as scared over this whole thing as he was. Maybe his heart was pounding out of his chest too, and he was terrified as well.
“-It’s not everyday that two Liverpool boys would be caught dead holding each other’s hands like some bird. But I’d like to cuddle you.” He finally finished.
John swallowed. Without saying a word, and as gingerly as he could, he lowered his head onto the smaller man’s shoulder. It was a bit awkward and uncomfortable, seeing as how much taller John was than the drummer, but he just shifted his hips down the seat to try and make himself a bit shorter. He huffed out and tried to stay calm. Ringo, in turn, leaned his head on top of Johns, copying what the two men in front of him were doing. He rubbed his thumb soothingly over the shiny fabric on John’s leg and squeezed his shoulder.
…
Thinking any risk was well worth it at this point, Ringo turned his head into John’s hair, and gave him a quick kiss. Nothing too special. Something that could be taken back, unlike a kiss on the lips. He inhaled the scent of John’s hair, and then buried his nose in it and closed his eyes. He could feel himself shake with nervousness, but he hoped John couldn’t feel it. He was nervous too, Ringo told himself.
…
John glanced at the two men in front of him, still pleasantly asleep and grinned to himself. He had long since forgotten about the weed he was so excited for, or the ciggys and a change of clothes. The song on the radio had finished a while ago, and John no longer had to think about it. He closed his eyes and relaxed into Ringo’s soft and oh so warm shoulder, sighing with contentment.
“Ringo kissed me” he thought.
“Me best mate kissed me.”