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George was cute. Ringo could admit it, easily, even. All scruff and fangs and pent-up energy and sweetness. The leather jackets didn't do much to make him look tough, and he was much too friendly to even keep up the act for too long. A rock n’ roll Beethoven in teddy boy kit.
It was late into the night now, certainly well past 3 in the morning, even. The band on stage was clearly piss drunk, beating out one final song like it was a man that owed them money. John’s already squinty eyelids drooped, and Stu’s sluggish fingers were hardly even plucking the strings anymore. Paul had totally given up, with some bird’s knickers slung over his eyes, strumming whatever chords he could come up with, one after the other, head lolling. And Pete… Christ, what was there even to say about Pete that couldn’t be said already?
All of them were barely hanging on. Except for George, whose foot was still tapping excitedly along to the unsteady beat Pete was laying down, somehow managing to keep time despite it’s irregularities. Grinning, sharp canines seeming to glint in the low light. His hair was damp with sweat, slicked to his forehead, and skin gleaming with the faint sheen of it all along his body. He’d even ditched his jacket, leaving it strewn across the bass drum on stage.
They finished with not much excitement besides rowdy, rasping, shouting and screaming. Then they stumbled all along, falling over each other, clinging in a big pile of steadying and slurring.
And they all pissed off, to do whomever or whatever they do when they’re not playing.
Except George, who was almost skipping over to Ringo, practically buzzing with excitement. Steps hurried and a clear pep in his step.
“RITCHIE!” George called excitedly, stumbling over his own knocked up shoes. He laughed a giggly thing and stumbled right against him, cheek warm against his shoulder. “Ritchie, ‘m sloshed!”
“Can tell, mate.” Ringo held down a grin, settling the younger man on the seat beside him. A simple, smooth warmth washed over him. “Get your wits, take a break.”
“I’ve got blisters on me fingers, ‘m never playin’ a bloody club ‘gain…”
He snorted and took a steady sip of his beer, finishing it off to the sudsy ends. “Tell that to Lennon, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“Johnny can kiss my arse…” George rolled a bit, slumping further into him. A bony chin pressing right against the junction of his forearm and his bicep.
And suddenly, a soft pressure pressed down, and he heard the faint squeak of cheap leather being shifted and pinched under a weight. Something vaguely warm.
George had… bitten him. Right on the bicep. The thick leather of Ringo’s own jacket acted as a suffice layer of protection, but the younger man was clearly biting hard, expelling energy. Chewing once, twice, three times. And thin arms wrapped tight around his waist, squeezing like a snake. His feet pushed heels against the ground and he seemed to edge harder against Ringo.
“Pardon me, fangs.” Ritchie finally managed, amusement in his voice.
The younger instantly pulled away, as if realizing what he’d done, a light flush crossing his face. “Ah… sorry. Forgot you don’t—“
“Y’can bite me if ye want, Haz.” He chuckled.
“Seriously? ‘Cause I know it’s, y’know, weird—“
“I don’t mind.” Ringo reassured, patting his arm. “Just watch the teeth?”
George grinned, big and wide, and leaned down to continue chomping away on his arm. It was oddly nice, really, the repeated gentle pressure of it, the squeeze of arms around him, the warm body pressed against his. Sure, maybe it was weird to do this sort of thing just out and about… well, there was no harm in it. Just some biting.
When he came around back to their shabby little spot in Hamburg, half-drunk stumbling to open the door, Rory answered. He took one look at Ringo with wide eyes, blonde hair unkempt like he’d woken up from sleep.
“Chrissake, Ritchie,” He grasped Ringo’s arm and examined bite after bite on the sleeve of his jacket. “Who’s dog got at you?”
“A Beatle.” Ritchie chuckled and slurred, warmth bubbling in his chest.
“A bloody beagle? Who’s got a beagle in Hamburg?”
It wasn’t a funny thing. Not really. But Ringo laughed and tipped his head back, letting the warmness in his gut flow through his body.