Chapter Text
Ringo wasn’t entirely sure why they continued to swap who roomed with whom on tour. Not since the bombshell revelation that should have been anything but, when Ringo waved enough evidence in John and Paul’s face to force their hand of admittance as to the true nature of their relationship. On his own birthday, no less.
‘Yes, Paul and I are together,’ John answered simply, staring cooly from his seat on the couch. Paul, frozen by the window, said nothing. ‘Is there anything else you would like to know?’
‘No- no.’ Ringo tried to swallow. He’d known it was coming, wouldn’t have pressed it if he hadn’t been entirely sure of the truth of it all, but the confirmation from John’s own lips, lips that likely kissed Paul against the bathroom counter not half an hour before, shook him more than he’d expected. The suspicion of guessing was one thing after all, but the reality of knowing… ‘I, I’m sorry.’
‘For not minding your own fucking business?’
‘John.’ Paul cut in. ‘Ringo, we… we should have told you. We never meant to… insult you. That isn’t why we’ve kept it from you’
‘It’s alright. I understand.’ He did, too. All too clearly now that he’d just yelled at them for keeping it a secret. Who would want to reveal the most intimate parts of themselves when a torrent of screaming was associated with it. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
‘Ringo, you don’t have to—’
‘It’s fine.’ He swallowed more successfully this time. ‘I need a moment.’ He turned and hurried out of the small sitting room, almost knocking George flat on his arse, and soon found himself in the swell of the Blackpool night scene.
When he staggered back to the hotel at half past four in the morning, drunk enough for more than a minor hangover, he found them both asleep on the couch, Paul curled in John’s lap with tear-stained cheeks and John’s arm protectively around him, face nuzzled into his hair. Ringo retreated to his room — previously shared with Paul but now occupied by George — and didn’t say a word.
So yes, he found it odd that after all that, after it was clear what their relationship was and that there was no need to continue hiding it, the four of them still swapped roommates on different legs of the tours. He didn’t mind, per se. In fact he quite enjoyed rooming with Paul, who had been so willing to do so from the very beginning, when he joined the band last year. But he did think it weird. Wouldn’t John and Paul prefer to room with each other?
He deemed it best not to ask, though, and their autumn touring schedule wound toward winter with new suitemates every week or so. When they arrived in Portsmouth, it was his second night rooming with Paul — a welcome relief from how thoroughly messy John had been in Dublin and Belfast.
Paul had joked about it last night, returning to their Portsmouth hotel room after a day spent enjoying the channel-side town and not racing from one venue to another. A rare day off in the midst of everything. “Nice to come back to a clean hotel room, isn’t it?”
Ringo hadn’t been sure how much to agree with the joke, not wanting to inadvertently insult John and win Paul’s quietly terrifying anger. “Nice to have a chance to catch our breath, certainly,” he’d settled on. “Not all sweaty for the tenth day in a row.”
“God, if I have to shower with another spider, I’ll go on strike,” Paul had laughed back. “Probably will be one in there in the morning, though. You want to go first tomorrow?”
“Oh, no, it’s all yours. Cold water wakes me up.”
“Magnanimous,” Paul had observed with a wink. “Right then, see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Paul.”
“Night, Ringo!”
And that had been that, all quiet — and clean — on the Portsmouth front. Until the aforementioned morning actually arrived. To the sound of Paul coughing above the noise of the shower head.
Ringo frowned, wondering if the noise was actually what he thought, and disentangled himself from the bed covers. The floor was chilly, as was the general air around him, and he approached the loo with a shiver. Paul was still coughing.
“Paul?” He rapped his knuckles against the door. “You alright in there?”
The coughing paused for a moment, almost as if Paul had suspended his breath, and a stilted voice answered. “That you, Ringo?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You doing alright?”
“Yeah, I’m—” Paul cut himself off with a cough. The shower stopped, too. “Yeah, fine. Just a cough. I’ll be out in a minute, sorry.”
“No rush, mate.” Ringo retreated from the door and gathered his day suit from the wardrobe. Several hours of interviews and rehearsals lay ahead of them, followed by a 10-song show at the Guildhall that evening. Back to the grindstone as quick as they’d left it.
By the time he’d assembled his suit and made up his bed somewhat, Paul still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom. The coughing hadn’t abated much, either. Ringo frowned. He’d been fine yesterday, hadn’t he?
He moved toward the door again. “Paul? Are you sure everything’s alright?”
“Yes!” The answer came a bit too quickly, and Ringo wondered if his worry was bordering on irritating. “I’m just—,” another cough interrupted him, “I’m alright, really. Something stuck in my throat— oh God.”
“Paul?” Ringo pressed against the door at that, recognizing all too well that there was pain intertwined in the muttered exclamation. “Paul mate, what’s going on?”
“I’m fine, Ringo, really. I, uhn.” There came the sound of a throat clearing.
It reminded Ringo instantly of hospital, of people bent over a sink or a bucket with a groan seated deep in their stomach. And with that always came the threat of germs. He shuddered, involuntarily moving back from the door.
Not a moment too soon, either, because a minute later Paul finally stepped forth from the bathroom, door swinging inward with a swell of steam. He had a towel around his waist and shoulders, despite looking entirely dry. How long had he been in there just coughing?
“Sorry about that. All yours now!” The notes in his voice were all upbeat, pushing toward normal, but as soon as Ringo met Paul’s eyes, the illusion was ruined. His face was drawn, under eyes hollow, and his brows knit together in a way that creased his forehead all too tightly. “I look that bad, do I?” Paul tried to joke. His tone bordered on uncertainty now.
Ringo hurried to reassure. “No, I just, you sounded a bit out of sorts, that’s all.”
“Just from cough, I’m sure,” Paul said, a small smile offered with it. He made his way to the wardrobe as well, pulling out his own set of clothes. Ringo almost believed him, not wanting to press more than he thought was appropriate, but just as he turned to the bathroom, Paul let out another groan. “Shit.”
“Paul?” He swivelled back. Paul had one hand braced against the wardrobe, leaning forward slightly. His left knee was tremoring. Ringo bit his lip. He should help, he knew, but getting closer meant germs… “Paul, are you sure you’re alright?”
His head moved in something of a nod. “Yeah, fine. I just…” He paused for a slightly shaky breath. “Need to sit down for a minute.” He stepped away from the wardrobe, doing his best to steadily lower himself to his bed. Ringo willed himself to inch closer.
“Dizzy?” He offered. Paul being sick, or anything less than competent, was mostly unexplored territory.
Paul managed to shake his head. “Stomach cramps. Probably something I ate yesterday.” He forced out another flow of air. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”
Ringo held his own breath before moving a few more steps toward him. “How are you feeling, really?”
Paul remained silent for a moment, eyes down at his lap, still covered in a towel. “I guess a bit peaky, maybe.” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat. Suddenly, he looked up, meeting Ringo’s eyes with his own hazel ones. They were so big, wide in a way that he’d noticed before but had never seen this close. “Don’t tell John, though. I’ll be alright.”
Not tell John? “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he’ll only worry more than he needs to.” Paul stifled another cough. “I’ll be fine once I’ve got some tea in me anyway.”
The confidence in how Paul said it was admirable, even if Ringo very much doubted that tea would actually solve anything. Still, Paul was rarely one to be argued with, so Ringo retreated into the bathroom for his own shower, resolved to keep Paul’s cough and stomach cramps between the two of them. He didn’t fancy worrying John, either.
________________________
It was clear from breakfast that tea was, as Ringo suspected, not the solution to Paul’s burgeoning condition. He was uncharacteristically quiet all through the meal, toast and eggs eaten without much comment, and when Neil dropped them off at the Guildhall in the van just before noon, Paul’s face looked too flushed to be explained by a bout of brisk autumn air.
Brian ushered them all into the clean but musty-smelling dressing room not long after, explaining the need for a lengthy sound-check before they actually started rehearsing — the building was over seventy years old by now and it’s age was showing — and reminding them of their interview with Southern Television for “Day by Day” two hours before the show itself started.
“Are there any questions?” Brian asked when his long-winded speech finally curtailed itself.
“That’s usually Paul’s area,” George almost yawned. “Paul?”
“None from me.” His voice was quiet. “Thanks, Brian.”
“Of course, Paul.” Brian turned to John and Ringo. “Anything from you, lads?”
Ringo glanced to John, still some sense of deferring ingrained in him as the newest member, and found him looking at Paul, brows almost knit. Ringo gathered himself quickly. “Would you like us in our performance suits before or after the interview?”
“Ah, good question.” Brian patted his pockets and pulled out a slip of paper. “Before, I think. I’m not sure how long the interview will take, but it’ll be easier if you don’t have to change in the rush between then and the curtain. I know it’s cold in here, though, so by all means keep your overcoats on if you need to.”
George nodded, and Ringo followed suit, doing his best to give the image of one paying attention even as his focus kept drifting to John and Paul. John had leaned a bit closer, mouth ducking toward Paul’s ear. Paul nodded a second or two later, no doubt in reply to whatever John had asked, but the latter didn’t seem convinced. He looked as though he wanted to ask more, too, but Brian was addressing him directly now.
“John, anything from you? I have a meeting with the manager here in a few minutes and then I’ll have to leave the majority of preparations in your hands.”
John looked up, face blankly curious. “When’s lunch?”
“... At 2, if I’m not mistaken.” Brian’s expression showed predictable disappointment. “Well, if that’s everything, I’ll leave you all with the schedule. Sound checks and rehearsals at your leisure, lunch at 2, interview at 5.” He paused a moment longer, as if waiting for another rogue question, before turning and slipping out the door.
He’d scarcely been gone a few seconds when Paul pushed himself to his feet. “Right, sound check, then?”
“Already?” George frowned. “God, you’re a pain in the mornings, you know that? Always busy about something.”
“It’s past noon, George,” John teased, but judging by the lingering frown on his face, he didn’t seem entirely settled with Paul’s rapid movement either.
Either ignoring it on purpose or being blissfully ignorant, George rose from his own chair with a grumble and followed Paul to where their instruments were arranged in the corner of the dressing room. Ringo made to follow, but John caught his arm.
“Was Paul alright this morning?” He kept his voice low.
Ringo glanced to Paul. Don’t tell John. He fidgeted with a ring. “I think so. He showered and everything like normal.” Ringo cringed as soon as he said it. Maybe John would think he’d seen Paul shower?
John merely nodded though, face still tight. “Right, thanks.”
Ringo returned the nod, hoping that it was convincing and not incriminating, and watched John join the other two with their string instruments. The collection of guitars and basses was admirable, each one having some hallowed story of purchase and shows and loving alterations. John hoisted one of his coveted Rickenbackers out of a case as Ringo watched — Lord knows which one — and pretended to tune it next to Paul’s ear.
Paul didn’t notice for a moment, then jumped when the neck brushed against his cheek. He laughed almost immediately after, a real laugh the sound of which only John could elicit from him and only slightly tinged with fatigue, and surged forward to poke John in the ribs. Ringo turned away before they could embrace or kiss, even modestly, and called that he’d be on the stage. His drums had been there since yesterday and needed to be set up, anyway. No sense in seeing something that he’d never really been meant to.
Although maybe it wasn’t so much that he wasn’t meant to see it and more that John and Paul had never set out with the intention to have anyone see it. From what he gathered, the two of them had set out with the intent to keep it as quiet as possible. It wasn’t the type of thing to parade about, after all. And beyond that, neither of them were the type of people who came across as those who shared inner details of their lives, anyway. Both of them were quite reserved when it came to talking about their mums or parts of their childhood.
Paul was too controlled for that, certainly warm and genuine with the band, but still full of calculated charm and humour for the press, the fans, the passersby. John was less controlled, it seemed, but his guard rarely if ever dropped to let anyone in. Anyone but Paul.
So it wasn’t a wonder then, really, that the two of them were protective of each other and what lay between them. Truly, Ringo hardly knew anything about the details of their relationship. The questions of exclusivity, of how often and since when, of how deep the affection really ran, all of it remained a mystery. They certainly hadn’t told him, and he wasn’t going to ask. Not even to George, who quite obviously knew most all of it. There was no point in putting him between them, and especially not about a topic he was already ill at ease with.
Best just to leave it, then. To look away the few times he saw them kissing and to plug his ears the few times he heard them through the wall. It didn’t happen often, anyway, and times like now, when they all filed onto the stage and tuned up and checked sound and folded into rehearsing, they were the same as they’d always been: full of music, full of humour, full of some unspoken language that danced between them.
The same was true today as they ran through everything once, adjourned for lunch, and returned for a final check before once again leaving the stage, though this time for a half hour or so in the dressing room before the television interview. Through all of it Paul was light-footed, bobbing at the microphone and dancing between amps and speakers for checks and adjustments. He and George broke into a revelry of teasing at John’s expense during lunch, to the point that Ringo wondered whether tea really had become a miracle cure.
It was only when the lull of being in the dressing room reared its head that things started to change. Without much lost time, Paul receded into the quiet he’d exuded that morning. It did not slip past John unnoticed.
“You alright, Macca?” John murmured, almost too low for Ringo to hear, despite standing a step away from Paul at the mirror.
“Yeah, all fine.”
Ringo saw Paul smile in the mirror.
“You’re sure? If you need a kip, you don’t have to do the interview. It’s not a big outfit or anything.”
“I’ll be alright, John. Can’t disappoint the adoring public now, can I?” Paul raised an eyebrow mischievously at that, another silent word exchanged with John, and Ringo moved toward the coat rack on the other side of the room.
He withdrew his overcoat from its hanger, knowing all too well how cold everywhere else in the Guildhall would be. When George returned from the loo rubbing his arms, Ringo added his scarf for good measure.
It wasn’t a foolish one, as it turned out, for a few minutes later the four of them were gathered at the end of a hallway near the front of the hall, purposely shivering while they waited for the interviewer and cameraman to get the equipment set up. Paul, also clad in a long woollen jacket, looked ever paler than normal, and John kept glancing at him when he thought no one was looking.
“All ready?” The interviewer finally asked. He received earnest nods from all of them, though Paul’s looked pained in its vigour. “Right then, rolling in 3, 2, 1! Welcome to tonight’s program of ‘Day by Day’, wherein we’re lucky enough to be with perhaps the hottest group on the British sound scene at the moment, the Beatles. Now you lads are in the thick of your autumn tour for the year. Are you beginning to find the strain of this going around the country at this tremendous speed getting you down a bit?"
Ringo found himself laughing along with the rest of them. After Hamburg, this pace was a blessing.
“No, no,” George chuckled.
“No for me, too,” John added. “We like it. It's great, y’know."
Almost from behind him, Ringo heard Paul speak up. “Yeah, you know us.”
The interview offered a smile, evidently charmed, but continued on a similar line of questioning. "You don't find it frightening, this business of being mobbed and having to go through all these rigamaroles to get here?"
John continued with his politely open expression. "No, y’know. The police get mobbed, we don't."
Paul nodded lightly in agreement. "It's always well organised, very well organised.” Paul paused, clearly searching for something to add. His comments usually carried more than one-idea answers. He looked toward John, as if he was the one interviewing them. Ringo saw John give a hint of a smile, a slightly raised brow. Unspoken encouragement. “You know. Today was very good." He dropped his eyes.
The interviewer didn’t seem to notice. "How did you get here tonight?"
Paul looked up again. "Uh, a van."
“How?” The interviewer asked again.
It was a silly question, stupid really, and Ringo shot his eyes quickly to John, wondering if he’d mock it. His face was indeed set in a frown, but not of irritation and not toward the interviewer. Instead, he was still looking at Paul, and his expression was one of confused concern.
Paul tried to gather himself, the question still unanswered. “Well, umm, we were met outside the city this morning, and brought in by a van.” His eyes tracked uncertainly. Ringo could feel his arm trembling. “Unloaded, at the loading bay.” He forced a small laugh, and Ringo joined in, suddenly and desperately uncomfortable at Paul being so out of sorts beside him.
Again, the interviewer looked entirely unaware. “Is that how’re you gonna get out?”
Why doesn’t he shut up? Ringo wondered. He stepped forward as Paul drew back, answering as a cover for whatever time Paul needed to steady himself. “Oh, I dunno, they’ll arrange that.”
“Yeah, they’ll decide just before the end of the show, see which is the best way.” George shrugged from his side of their small panel.
“Mm, I see.” There was no way of knowing if the interviewer actually did see, but they all continued listening as politely as they could. "You're getting so much publicity these days, and even the 'egghead' papers are writing about you. Have you been just a little bit worried that you might be going over the top fairly soon?"
“No,” George dismissed it with what Ringo knew was veiled irritation.
"No, you know. When you gotta go, you gotta go." John, too, sounded unamused when he spoke, but by the way he was still looking toward Paul, Ringo doubted it was from the question.
The host laughed, eternally ignorant, and continued forth in admirable stupidity. "What are you going to do when your time comes?"
"Sail on me yacht,” George imparted, leaning directly to the mic.
Ringo laughed without meaning to, always entertained by George’s dry wit. He was so much like John that way, a small carbon copy, really, and very real proof of the brotherly relationship they had. John chuckled along with him.
“I’ll jump on board.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, turning automatically to Paul.
It was his turn to say something, after all. Something unassuming yet charming. Ringo looked at him from the corner of his eye. The lad looked like he might be sick.
Ringo spoke without meaning to. "We don't know, y’know. We haven't got any definite ideas what we're all gonna do."
John nodded almost immediately, and before the interviewer could ask another question, he reached for Ringo’s scarf. "Been to college, have you?"
"Yeah, it's me school scarf.” Ringo splayed out the folds, showing the colours. “Borstal High."
Unplaced laughter followed, including a spot of some from Paul. The tail end sounded as though it were breaking into a cough, and Ringo coughed himself, louder and into his elbow. Paul turned, ducking his head behind Ringo as much as he could.
“A touch of throat, then?” The interviewer asked.
Yes, though not for me. "Yeah.” Ringo gave a joking cough. “There's nothing wrong with it, though!” He dared a glance toward Paul at the ensuing laughter and found him staring at his shoes. His breathing moved shallowly in the air between them. Ringo tacked another joke on the end, wondering if it would help anything. “I always talk like this.”
Placated, the host moved on. "You're not thinking of giving up the Big Beat stuff and going in for some harmony singing? Because one or two people said you're very good harmony singers."
John tore his eyes from Paul. "Well, we do it, you know. There's harmony in the big beat. It just happens to have a beat as well. All of our records have had some kind of harmony on them."
"I noticed in the Royal show that you did one ballad number,” the interviewer commented. Ringo was impressed he’d actually watched it. “Is this something you're going to do more of?"
John’s brows furrowed more. His patience seemed to be thinning. "We've been singing it for about five years, and we've always done numbers like that. It's just that we're known for faster numbers." Beside him, Paul tried to nod.
"Do you like the ballads?" The man asked.
"If they're good,” John returned. It sounded as though he was trying not to be cross. “You know, there's good ballads and good beats." He looked to Paul again, for what Ringo knew was out of concern. The host read it as an invitation for Paul to speak.
“How about you, Paul?”
Paul’s head came up in an instant, almost jolting. “Yeah, good!” It was too cheery, too chipper, and as soon as the host refocused on all of them and none of them at once, Paul turned entirely so he was behind the protection of Ringo’s frame. Ringo heard a muffled gag, then a sharp breath.
"Very good.” The host blazed politely yet intrepidly forward. “Now, how did you enjoy the Royal Variety show in general?"
George swooped in, turning attention to himself as John tried to catch Paul’s eye. "It was great. Fabulous. It was very good, you know. The audience was much better than we expected."
Ringo nodded in agreement, hoping it would help somehow. Beside him, Paul was murmuring something to John just as John was trying to add some sort of cover for Paul as well.
“Much taller,” he joked.
The host laughed appreciatively. “Very good, then! Well, thank you to the Beatles for this opportunity, and thank you viewers for watching as well. Up next we’ll be checking in right across the Solent with some news from the Isle of Wight.”
They’d just given a round of thanks from their own side, John already entirely focused on Paul, when a nearby door burst open and Brian rushed in.
“Ah lads, you’ve finished just in time. Two of the mics have gone out, and we need a final check before the doors open. John, George, would you be so willing?”
“As a matter of fact, no—”
“Splendid, thank you both.” Brian ignored John’s negation. “We’ll see you in the dressing room, Paul, Ringo. Should only take a few minutes.” He ushered John and George out the door he’d just come in, hardly giving John time to refuse or even glance over his shoulder at Paul, and then they were gone.
The interviewer and cameraman, too, had left, and Ringo was acutely aware of the only person beside him. In the few minutes it had taken to wrap up the interview, Paul’s face had gone from pale to ashen, and his brow gleamed with sweat. His breathing was laboured, catching every now and again in what could have been irritation from his cough that morning or an indication of near-retching. He had his forearm across his stomach, too.
“You alright, Paul—”
“I need the loo.” Paul clasped a hand over mouth, almost stumbling. “Now.”
The need to avoid vomit on the floor in the front of him was stronger than the fear of touching someone so obviously germ-infested, and Ringo threw an arm around Paul, clasping at his side, helped him through the door, down another hallway, and finally into the men’s bathroom. It was dirty around the edges of the tiles, and the paint on the ceiling looked rippled from moisture and tinted with smoke stains, but Paul didn’t seem to care. As soon as he had both feet inside the doorway, he broke away from Ringo, staggered forward into an open stall, and retched into the toilet with a violent groan.