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“Two, three, four—!” George counts out, and launches into his guitar intro. It’s twangy and sweet, a nice lead-in. He hears Ringo join him first on the drums, then with his voice, a country edge to it that matches George’s twang. “Well, how come you say you will when you won’t…”
Keeping his gaze fixed downwards on his guitar, George lets his lips twist into a slight smile. It’s just that Richie's voice is so endearing, made all the more so for how rarely George hears him sing. George’s fingers move easily in tandem with Ringo’s effortless drumming, and he loses himself in Ringo’s voice as the song goes on.
“Ah-ahhh, honey don’t! Ahhh rock on George, one time for me!”
That jolts George’s awareness back to himself, to his fingers still moving practically on their own, and to the slight fluttering sensation in his stomach. He shakes his head as he slides into his solo. If Ringo wants George to be playing for him, George is going to make sure it sounds goddamn perfect. But part of him is wandering, wondering if Ringo’s watching him, and then wondering why he cares.
They move into the instrumental chorus, and Ringo is interjecting little phrases here and there. “Mmmmhmm,” he hums, dragging the sound through the realm of “pleased” till it starts to get dirty, and George is—Christ, George needs to get it together. He tries to tune out Ringo’s voice as much as possible now, leaning into the sound of John’s and Paul’s guitars and melding with it.
And then he hears, “Ahh rock on George, for Ringo one time!”
George's guitar stutters in his surprise. Surely Ringo’s just messing with George at this point. George’s muscle memory takes over the solo as he turns around and makes eye contact with Richie. He gives him a face like, “What the fuck?” but Richie just grins at him. His regular goofy grin, seemingly no mischief behind it, though perhaps a hint of amusement.
George’s smile has a mind of its own, so often appearing against his will when he looks at Rich. He’s just as helpless to it this time as he is all the other times, but he makes sure to shake his head at him in clear disbelief before turning back to the front of the room.
It’s just that his words feel so…personal. Sure, Richie’s probably just innocently encouraging him, but, well, they don’t usually do that in their songs. It’s as if Ringo is talking to George alone, regardless of the others in the room. As if—George’s knees buckle a little at the thought—George belongs to Ringo, and Ringo isn’t afraid to let people know.
And Ringo referring to himself by his own name? There’s something about it that’s just—it sounds like something you’d say in the bedroom. Surely George is thinking way too hard about this.
He’s relieved when the song ends, and immediately suggests a break. The others agree, and George sinks onto the floor and pretends to fiddle with his guitar tuning. Paul catches his eye and frowns a little, a question, and George tips his head towards Ringo and rolls his eyes. Paul smirks, then says to the room at large, “Think I’ll go for some air outside. John?”
George snorts a little at the obvious ploy, but John hums his agreement; Paul shoots a rather pointed look at George before following John out the door. The room’s empty now except for George and Ringo. George can’t decide if he’s glad to have a moment alone with Ringo or if he’d sooner crawl into a hole somewhere to avoid him.
They sit in an awkward silence for a moment before George plays a few licks on his guitar, just for something to do other than face Richie. Finally, he steels himself and looks up, taking in a breath to say something, but the words leave his mind almost before he can fully form them. Ringo is already looking back at him.
His eyes on George are dizzying, giving George a panicky feeling like he needs to say something as soon as possible, before Ringo cottons on to the effect he's having on George. The words that have been tumbling nonsensically over and over in his head since he heard them come spilling out. “Rock on George, for Ringo one time?” He puts every ounce of sarcasm he can into the words, but he's not sure it comes through.
Ringo grins at him easily. “Yeah?” He stands up and stretches languidly before coming closer, pulling a chair around in front of George and sitting on it backwards, straddling it.
George feels his pulse pick up a little bit at that. “Why are you saying that?”
“Just a bit of fun, isn’t it?” Ringo answers cheekily. “Plus a nice reminder for you. You won’t go half-arsing your solo if I remind you every time that I actually want it to sound good.”
George glares at him for the implication that half-arsing his solo would actually make it sound bad. "And you calling yourself Ringo?”
Ringo shrugs. “Why not?”
George looks up at him, trying to figure him out, then shakes his head, presses his lips together to hide his fond grin. “You’re something else.”
Ringo looks pleased. “You have a problem with it?” He narrows his eyes at George. “You want me to change it?”
George puts on his innocent face. “Oh no, it’s fine. I don’t care what you do, really.”
“Except you do, or you wouldn’t have asked.”
Well, Ringo’s got him there. And he knows it, too. He leans in. Lowers his voice. “You like playing for me, don't you?” George searches for something to say and comes up blank. “Rock on George, for me.” The last word lingers on Ringo’s tongue, caught between his teeth before he lets it go, and George feels hot all over. “Who do you think you're playing for, Georgie?”
George feels something electric running down his spine, making his hair stand up. He looks down, unable to look at Ringo as he realizes that he’s right. That when George plays, his attention goes first to Ringo, before the band as a whole, before even the audience. Does Richie like it, what does Richie think?
George shakes his head at the floor, biting down on an ironic smile. He looks back up, shrugs. “It’s for you.” He says it simply, laid bare. Ringo already knows. There’s no point anymore in pretending otherwise.
There’s a victorious glint in Ringo's grin. He leans back. “Well, there ya go. Answered your own question, haven’t you?”
The air seems thicker than usual, harder to draw into his lungs. “How did you—” George flounders, but finds he has no words to follow it. “I mean—I never even thought that…” he trails off lamely.
Ringo shakes his head a little, smiling. “Oh, love, please. You’re not as subtle as you seem to think you are. You do realize how much you look back at me, right?”
George hadn’t realized. But Ringo’s smiling fondly at him, and George somehow feels very safe under his gaze. He knows that Ringo doesn't mind, he's not upset or making fun of George for it. In fact, he might even—?
"I love hearing you play, watching you play,” Ringo tells him suddenly. “I love playing with you, Georgie. And—" Ringo falters uncharacteristically, but only for a moment before pressing on. "And when I do I reckon I’m playing for you as much as you are for me.”
"Richie." George is out of words. He removes his guitar carefully, unable to look away from Ringo as he places it deliberately beside him. Richie's face is open, patient, eyes following George as he stands, then reaches out and grabs Ringo’s wrist, tugging him up too. Ringo follows easily, and just as easily he lays a hand on George’s face. George can feel his rings against his cheek, cold and sharp, at odds with the warm look Ringo’s giving him.
It’s all he can do to take a stumbling step forward and press his forehead into Ringo’s shoulder, a pseudo hug. Ringo turns it into a real hug, wrapping George up in his arms; George brings his hands up to cling to the back of Ringo’s shirt and Ringo starts swaying them gently, as if rocking a child to sleep. George forces a deep breath in, smelling the warm cigarette-and-musk smell of him.
Being surrounded by Richie is like floating in cool water, like waking up and finding that it’s rained. His brain calms and his thoughts fall into organized arrays, and he realizes that he feels not only good, happy, but like he could do anything. Like he would do anything for the man in his arms.
He pulls back to look at Ringo. “Kiss me, Rich.”
Richie’s smile is a lovely thing, the sunrise peeking over a mountain, a garden in full bloom. He moves a hand to cup George’s face again, rubbing his thumb across George’s cheekbone. Slowly, as gentle and reverent as the first few drops of rain, he leans in and kisses George.
And George lights up. The peaceful rain becomes a storm. Lightning strikes, sending sparks through George’s chest. He pushes himself closer, reaches a tentative hand up and buries it in Ringo’s hair. Ringo makes a noise low in his throat, and George just can’t get enough.
But then footsteps and voices come floating down the hall, John and Paul on their way back. George tears himself away and leans his head on Ringo’s shoulder, panting slightly into Ringo’s neck.
“I thought your solo was great,” Ringo murmurs.
George chuckles, looks up at him. His cheeks are painted a pretty pink. “You sounded pretty good, yourself.”
Ringo's gaze is almost unbearably tender. “I love you, Georgie. You know that, right?”
George can’t possibly express everything he wants to in the amount of time they have, so he just says, “I love you too.” But Richie smiles at him like that's enough.
They step apart as John and Paul enter the room, George bending to pick up his guitar and Ringo drifting back to his drums. George can’t stop smiling.
As he’s pulling his guitar strap over his head, he feels a gentle punch on his arm, and he turns to face Paul. Paul raises his eyebrows and mirrors George's smile. “Got it all sorted, then?” he asks quietly. He could be talking about anything.
“Yeah. Oh God, yeah.”
Paul’s smile turns into the hint of a smirk, but all he says is, “Good.”
And when George counts them back into the song and Ringo joins him, for a moment they’re the only ones playing, and George’s world shrinks to just the two of them and the music. And even as the others join in, something in George relaxes fully and deeply, and the world settles into balance.
He rocks on for Ringo.