Work Text:
Ringo cannot figure out how John is interested in him.
He’s just Ringo - he sits at the back and works hard and just gets on with it, he thinks. That’s who he is, who he was born to be. He still remembers the day he was ushered into the room by Brian Epstein and those dark, shrewd eyes glanced his way.
His bright, beautiful, vivacious, fierce John. Ringo had never been the leader of any group; he could see, despite being younger, that was John’s role. A leader, and Ringo was fine with that. And somehow John had looked at him and seen something he had wanted; him, over reliable, sensible, smart George and creative, enthusiastic, beautiful Paul.
John, who put all that show into being straight, whose effortlessness with women would probably make it into the history books. He’d never forget that moment in the elevator after a few drinks when John’s hand had brushed his; they’d locked eyes and John had said in that strange, throaty voice he got when he was drunk, that Ringo was alright. Ringo had stammered ‘Thanks’, naturally. That had apparently been code for John to latch himself onto Ringo’s face, and Ringo had been able to do little more than grab on and try to stay to the end of the ride.
Now, six months later, here they are, sitting in band practise as Paul carps on about something, pouting in displeasure, and Ringo cannot stop smiling as John strokes his leg behind the bass drum.
John cannot understand for an instant why Ringo would settle for him.
He has never had such a force of pure good in his life. Ringo, with his quiet dependability, his stolid maturity, and that biting wit hiding just under that kindly, loyal surface. Anybody who underestimates the drummer, he thinks in quiet amazement, is off their rocker.
John does not think he, himself, is a good person, per se. Good, he was always led to believe, was very subjective anyhow, but he’s pretty sure his karma isn’t high enough to deserve the adoration in those blue eyes every time Ringo looks across at him.
He knows he doesn’t deserve the comfort every time he wakes up, breath hitching from a nightmare in some hotel room whenever they’re playing, and strong arms surround him and soothe him back to sleep. Christ, he always thought he, John, was the leader; never mind Ringo’s age, surely his height disqualifies him. But in those moments, he’s glad to be led somewhere, to safety.
Now, as George rolls his eyes and turns around looking for his cup of tea, anything to dull Macca’s bloody whining, John reaches out to stroke Ringo’s leg, and realises with a heady rush that he’s in love. He realises it easily once a day, and that makes him happy.