Chapter Text
They all liked the drummer, Ringo Starr, who was Rory and the Hurricane's best band member, at least to them. Best drummer in Liverpool, and flashy with it, rings on his fingers, his own car, a real grown-up, to the rest of them.
It was a little frightening at first, because he would sit in the back and drink and train his eyes on them late, and call out for Three-Thirty Blues. It gave Paul a little thrill, the mix of danger and delight to have someone who was there for the music, invested, calling out. Not just a girl or a gangster, but someone else—someone like them, who knew music, who did this for a living.
Starr had proper quarters as well, real star treatment compared to the lads.
He had a way of standing like he knew who he was that Paul admired.
They started hanging out with him and he with them, and the first time he sat in on the drums when Pete was late again—it felt like magic. Paul couldn't believe it.
People would get annoyed with Paul when he wouldn't share his cigarettes—as if he had money to throw around that way, when he was the one who had to make sure everyone ate something and he still had money to send home to Mike and his father. He had to economise somewhere.
Some people blew their cash the moment they got it—or liked to flash it around—and then needed to borrow from Paul before the next time they got paid. And conveniently forget to pay him back and laugh at him for minding. But it wasn't just him, was it? He was here not just for the larks, not just for the music, but for money. The sheer practicality of living, eating—how could anyone forget about that, for even a moment?
Starr seemed comfortable, settled in his role as the most in demand drummer from Liverpool. He always had money. He'd earned a regular (and decent) salary for years as a drummer. He seemed comfortable, like he was relaxed into his life, his body, his role, his music—and Paul admired that. He still felt like he was fighting for scraps, scrambling for any recognition, attention, or musical progress—in the band, in Hamburg, in his life.
Starr had beautiful hands, and the heavy rings that flashed on his hands accentuated that. And one time he was there, when the others were taking the mick about Paul not sharing his ciggies—it was always uncomfortable to be the focus of that group, like that—the exis, Stu, John, George, all of them teaming up to skewer his pedestrian, prosaic, unsophisticated selfishness, to take little jabs and make it seem like he should be laughing too, when a few moments ago they'd all been ignoring him—it was like a drive-by jab.
But he could handle it, he was a big boy, only he wished they wouldn't do it in front of Ringo Starr. He didn't want to look silly in front of Ringo.
"That's all right me lad," said Ringo casually, stepping close to him, into his space—Starr didn't seem to need as much personal space as some people—and tapped two cigarettes out of his pack. Not to share. Not for everyone. For him and Paul. Despite himself, Paul felt warm and good. Ringo leaned close to light it for him.
He slung an arm around Paul's shoulders and stood there with him smoking in companionable solidarity. And the way he always did when someone was nice when they didn't get anything out of it, Paul fell just a little bit in love.
A stranger on the bus who gave him enough for his fare.
A boy sharing half his chocolate bar.
A little old woman serving food who'd dish out extra for him with a wink and a smile, just because she could see he was hungry.
The stranger behind the butcher counter saving scraps to give to the alley cats.
And Ringo Starr, sharing a ciggie and almost—well, almost hugging him. It wasn't a hug, of course—lads didn't, they weren't supposed to—but. It was as warm as a hug, somehow.
Nobody made fun of Ringo. He was too cool, too tough—he knew how to fight for one, despite his slight frame. He was strong, he inhabited his body in the way of someone who'd had to prove himself over and over, against the odds—and could. So that he actually didn't have anything to prove anymore.
Paul felt...sheltered. Safe, for the moment, in the shield of the drummer. Everything had been so much since coming here to Hamburg. It was good—money, music, the lads, the band—but it was so...much sometimes. And he was beginning to suspect that John no longer had any brakes—not when it came to prellies, or how wild he got on them.
Drugs weren't just for playing music anymore, not really. For John they were about being high and wild and free until he collapsed and couldn't do anything anymore. Till it was time to start again. It was scary, because John was, well, he was John—and when he wasn't anymore, it felt bad.
#
After that, Paul found excuses to be around Starr whenever he could. It was better than sitting with the others while they shut him out and ignored him, while Stu and John and Astrid kept doing whatever complicated jealousy dance they were doing.
It wasn't...he didn't want to understand it, but he did. It hurt to watch it from the outside, though, and know he didn't even have a chance.
Sometimes it was Astrid that Johnny seemed to want, and sometimes it was Stu, and some days John didn't even seem to notice Paul except when they were singing together, to glance at him, to get their timing right.
George had found a friend; why couldn't Paul? Never mind that Ringo was older and cooler and probably not looking for a friend. He had his own band to play with, and plenty of attention whenever he wanted it. (He just seemed to draw the eye, somehow. People didn't notice him at first and then suddenly they did and couldn't look away.)
Anyway, he was nice to Paul. He didn't chase him away.
In any room filled with gangsters, with people who wanted a piece of him, who felt entitled to tell him to get back on stage and play for another hour even if their set was done—Paul found it nice, comfortable, to sit by someone like Ringo Starr, to feel safe and protected by his presence, his unflappable level of cool, his confident, tough-guy demeanour.
And he was nice. God, he was nice. He'd give you a cigarette and then light it for you, laugh at your jokes, buy you a round or let you tag along while he went to eat, and then cover your meal ticket as well.
One day he casually invited Paul back to his place—which made Paul's heart thump painfully loud for a moment.
"You can get properly clean, crash on my bed if you want."
He'd glimpsed the awful back rooms where they were staying—once—and now...now he felt sorry for Paul? Or was he saying Paul smelled bad?
Paul squinted at him, trying to decide if he was being pitied or looked down on, or if this was a real invitation—or something else, something with strings attached.
Ringo looked calmly back. The light caught on his fingers, on the rings. He looked lovely like that, surrounded in a haze of smoke, his powerful features, his soft eyes. His strong hands.
"I'd like that, thanks." Paul looked away.
Ringo gently tapped a cigarette out of his pack, lit it with his own, and offered it to Paul.
"Thanks."
He'd take a bath, a nap if he could get one. Johnny had been weird lately—attacking clothes, dressers—and sometimes it was awfully...busy...in their rooms. Paul wasn't actually getting much sleep, even when he had time to sleep.
Being here was like a marathon, the endless stage performances, the carnival whirl of music and madness, of trying to keep people entertained while not pissing off the gangsters too much, of earning their keep and going past their endurance, and drugs and then trying to come down from them, to sleep, to eat, to recover for the next time.
Time wasn't measured in days any longer. It was sets, and between sets, and the number of times he sang Long Tall Sally. It was sitting with Ringo while his eyes drooped and feeling the light touch of the drummer, reaching over to straighten him up when he started to lean sideways.
Maybe that was it. Ringo could see he was falling asleep, falling apart. Paul hadn't meant to let it show.
#
The bath was hot, and made him feel like a person again, instead of a thing. It was so good to feel clean, to be clean. He'd scrubbed and soaked and dried thoroughly. He tried to give his hair a good finger comb into place before he went out.
Wiping steam off the tiny mirror, he looked at himself doubtfully. Young, pouty features, eyebrows too skinny, eyes looking back at him warily. What did he think was going to happen? He didn't have to look good for Mr. Starr. But he wanted to.
He didn't have any product to do his hair up proper, so he had to leave it floppy and loose. He took a breath, firmed his shoulders, headed out.
"Thanks," he said carelessly to Ringo, who was lying on his bed smoking. "It's nice to get clean."
Starr's rings gleamed as he shifted on the bed, turned towards Paul a little. He moved his cigarette to the other hand and patted the bed beside him.
Ah.
Paul hesitated only a second, and then came and sat down gingerly near Ringo. Lying there, in his tight trousers and half-open shirt, eyes heavy-lidded and half shut, Ringo looked good. The epitome of a teddy boy, a tough guy—a heartthrob.
"There's room if you want a nap. I'm just resting me eyes. Have to be on soon." Ringo smoked, and watched him.
"If you're sure," said Paul, who didn't feel like playing hard to get. He climbed in beside Ringo, not bothering with the pretence of top and tails, and pulled the blanket over them both.
"Now we'll be nice and warm," he said. And if he let himself brush up against the older man, he was at least subtle about it. Far be it from Paul to make the first real move.
He lay there, still warm from the bath, but with his hair cooling fast. Ringo smelled nice, sort of earthy past his cigarette. He reached over Paul at last and put it out in the ashtray, and sighed. When he drew back, his let his hand pass over Paul's head, ruffling his damp hair, and then they were both under the covers, and Paul still didn't know, not really.
Was Ringo making a move, or was he being nice?
Paul thought, I don't care. I'll take whatever I can get. He closed his eyes, and let himself sink into the comfort of being warm, being somewhere quiet, being with someone who, at least right now, felt safe.
#
When he woke up, Ringo was shaking him gently. His hands were strong, powerful, commanding. Paul groaned a little, because he'd been having a very nice dream and didn't want it to end. "What?" he asked sleepily.
"I have to go on now. I have to get up." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Paul's forehead. "You've got to let me up, baby boy."
"I'm not a baby," protested Paul, but Ringo was disentangling his limbs from him, so Paul must've gone all octopus during the night.
"You can stay and sleep," said Ringo, finally managing to get free of him, get himself up and out of bed. He gave Paul a pat on the shoulder, and reached for his jacket and shrugged it on.
He looked impossibly cool like that, standing there, with the shirt that was open halfway and the jacket thrown on over it, and his trousers so tight they showed where he bulged.
Ringo gave him a wink, his eyes bright and his smile brighter. Then he was gone, leaving Paul to flop back on the bed and blow out a huge breath of air. He stared at the ceiling blankly for a moment, heart pounding. Then he pulled the covers over his head and sank back into the comfort of Ringo's bed.
He turned his head and sniffed at the pillow. It smelled a bit of hair cream, but more of whatever it was that made Ringo smell like Ringo.
God. He was getting another crush, wasn't he? Paul closed his eyes against the humiliating knowledge, and the silly, jumpy way his stomach felt about it.
He thought of Ringo's wink, and groaned a little. Was Ringo enjoying it, then, being the object of Paul's crush? Was he teasing, or laughing at him? Or something...else?
It wasn't like he'd discouraged Paul, far from it. Maybe he found it flattering.
Hadn't made a move, though. Well, Paul certainly wasn't going to. He wasn't going to humiliate himself that way, if he'd already been being doe-eyed and ridiculous without realizing it.
Ugh. Crushes. Who needed them?
He sniffed the pillow again, feeling like a freak.
In the end he'd take what he could get.
#
"Where were you, sunshine?" John's voice was harsh and angry. He didn't usually get like that, not with Paul. Not when they were alone. He tried to tell himself that was the real Johnny—the one when they were alone, writing songs, practicing music, facing each other, when it was quiet. It hadn't been quiet much lately, not in their lives, not inside Johnny. Sometimes he got kind of scary.
"Out," said Paul, flopping down on his bed. It was cold here. It was awful here. He hated it. The only thing that made it worth it was the music. Everything else was shit. He'd probably feel differently tomorrow, when John wasn't giving him that squinting, suspicious glare.
Suddenly John's expression changed, got a little brighter, mischievous. "Ah well, can't blame the lad for getting off, can I?"
Dunno, can you? he wanted to ask. The scissor incident had been pretty scary. But he didn't talk back to John like that. John could make a person pay in a dozen horrible little ways if he thought they were mocking him. He wouldn't take it from friends. John had had enough of that in his life; Paul understood. But sometimes he could be...difficult.
John plopped down beside him and leaned against him, shoving his shoulder against Paul's. "Look at you, you even smell clean. God, I ought to find meself a girl with her own place." He halfway nuzzled at Paul, and Paul let himself relax against John. He wasn't in a bad mood now. He was close, and nice, and himself, at least for the moment.
Paul closed his eyes and leaned against him, cherishing the moment of warmth, the sturdy feeling of John here, John, like you could count on him.
#
John didn't say anything about it, but it was only two days after that Astrid started inviting them round to hers to use her bath. So did that mean Astrid and John...?
He wasn't going to be ungrateful, whatever the case. He wasn't. It was good to be clean. It was good to be warm. He'd been halfway hoping Starr would invite him round again, but so far it hadn't happened.
To be honest, he was a little afraid to hang around the drummer the way he wanted to. Ringo's air of relaxed coolness had him flustered now, since he knew what he was feeling was a crush. Paul really didn't want anyone to guess.
He didn't want to do anything stupid to make it obvious, and get himself teased. Or worse, for Johnny to get suspicious. He would see right through Paul if he saw him being silly about Ringo—and Paul didn't know what reaction would hurt the most, if John laughed at him, got angry at him, or just teased him like anyone else would.
It was embarrassing to get crushes. But some of his best memories were from having crushes. His English teacher. How hard he'd wanted to work to impress the man. How much he'd enjoyed any scrap of attention, any chance to study him.
And, well, why not admit it? Johnny. He couldn't exactly say when the crush had died out, for Johnny, because sometimes it still felt like it was there, eating a hole through him, and sometimes he felt like they were just normal friends now and his old feelings were water under the bridge.
John was impossible to ignore, though. Always. He was always going to matter to Paul—however things stood between them. But John seemed to be quite able to ignore him lately. At least when they weren't playing music or alone together.
#
"You gonna sing me something bluesy tonight?" Ringo's low voice had a gentle rasp tonight. He leaned in, so their heads were almost pressed together, letting his cigarette light Paul's.
Paul shivered inwardly. "Don't see why not," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. There was an embarrassing croak halfway through.
Ringo's eyes gleamed as he slung an arm around Paul. He was so casually affectionate like that. It didn't mean anything—not like Paul was special—but oh, it felt good. It felt good to feel special, even if for one moment. He closed his eyes and smoked, feeling the relief of the hit, and let his head fall back a little, just a bit, so he was leaning against that strong, protective arm.
Images flashed through his mind—Ringo, pulling him close, telling him he'd looked good up there today, giving him a rough, sweet kiss. Those sharp blue eyes studying him, seeing through all his secrets, knowing Paul would be an easy touch, if he wanted—and then smiling, grinning, pulling him after him, into some dark alley, some warm bed.
He'd give Ringo whatever he wanted. It was a shameful thing, he knew—but it was hard to feel shame anymore, here in the Reeperbahn, where everyone did exactly what they wanted and could still look at themselves in the mirror the next day.
"You smell clean," said Ringo. "Got somewhere proper to wash, then?"
Paul was conscious of blushing. "Yeah, our friend—" It sounded better to say 'our friend,' didn't it? Instead of admitting just how much on the outside he felt lately?
There was something a bit awe inspiring about Astrid, and she did genuinely seem interested in them—interested enough to take their pictures, posing them, and talk to them and listen to them play. He didn't really know where he fit in the picture, but he was somewhere in the frame, at the edge of it. Maybe not really a friend—but maybe something like it.
Hard to tell, honestly, when there never seemed to be quite enough room for him. When the exis and the lads got together, Paul was pushed out. Somehow, he just didn't fit. He got on their nerves, even when he wasn't trying to. He'd never be in quite the right conversation, the same one they were in—even when he thought he was, only to realise they were laughing at him.
"Somewhere to kip as well?" asked Ringo, still with that casual arm around him that felt so so nice.
"Just—you know—the usual," said Paul, trying not to stutter.
"Well, it's no trouble if you stop by mine sometimes."
He was so casual about it, Paul still couldn't tell if he was being nice or if he was showing interest.
Did it matter? Paul wasn't going to turn him down.
#
Three times after that—when he had the time, when he could get away, when he wasn't too hopped up on pills to sleep—he took Ringo up on the offer. Once, Starr was just going out, and he let Paul have the bed all to himself, saying a casual goodbye on his way out. And Paul wasn't disappointed. Definitely not.
Another time, Ringo took him back with him to sleep something off and fell asleep immediately and didn't move, barely even seemed to be breathing. That scared Paul a little more than he liked. Ringo was so clearly lost to the world that Paul dared to put his head against Ringo's chest and listen for his heartbeat. It calmed him down, a little, and eventually he slept, too.
It was warm and good being in Ringo's bed. It felt safe.
The third time, Ringo was awake, his eyes bright. He talked to Paul like that, lying face to face, with a nice heavy blanket over them, warm together. He wanted to know about the band, what their plans were. It was hard to admit that the lads had both the biggest plans in the world, and sometimes didn't know what the plan was two days from now.
He even seemed slightly interested when Paul talked about writing their own songs. His brows lifted slightly, and he looked at Paul, but didn't press for more information.
Paul told him, anyway.
"We just like to have more songs to do that other people don't know, you know?" Like he had to make excuses for it. Like it was something to apologize for. "I mean everybody can do Long Tall Sally, right? But it's different when you're got your own songs. Nobody can copy your set then."
"Not like you," said Ringo.
"What?" Paul felt flustered.
"Not everybody can sing Long Tall Sally. Not like you." Ringo reached up and gave his hair a tousle. "You're pretty good at that one."
"I thought you only liked the bluesy stuff," said Paul, feeling flushed and happy all over.
Ringo shrugged. "Rock's all right, if it's done right."
Exactly, thought Paul. Exactly.
#
George was also taking an interest in Ringo, and the whole band seemed to get along with him, whenever he was nearby. Which he was a lot lately.
It was kind of cute, the way Ringo let George play with his drums, teaching him a few tricks, being so patient with him when most grownup drummers would've looked down on a seventeen-year-old wanting to hang out and play like that.
It was reassuring, the way Ringo seemed to make everyone feel relaxed and easy, the way he could make even John laugh, the way he joined in their jokes and didn't seem challenged by any one of them. The lazy, relaxed way he sat, his calm stare, his cheerful words despite his mournful face. He was a slightly built man with strong features and big beautiful eyes, and big strong hands, and an air of knowing exactly who he was. He carried himself like he didn't have anything to prove. There was something very appealing about that.
At any rate, even John didn't seem threatened by him. Pete might have—if he hadn't been missing shows, when Ringo offered to step in and drum for them. It was hard to mind about Pete, with Ringo so good, so so good. It felt really nice, the way they could all fall in with him and play together so well.
When they were out and about and Ringo was there, that felt good, too. He didn't do or say anything particularly that made them safer from the risks they always seemed to run at the Reeperbahn—risks they learned about after they'd taken them—but somehow his presence made things feel safer. He was so obviously savvy and relaxed, and nobody tended to think he was an easy target or a pushover. Paul and George, with their baby faces, and John when he was way too wasted, were kind of easy targets on their own. Stu was beautiful, slight, and fragile-looking with moony, dreamer's eyes. Pete was pretty good protection when he was around—but he so often wasn't anymore.
And Ringo was there. He was there, and when he put an arm around you, it felt so comforting. Sometimes Paul would sit with him and George—George on one side, talking to Ringo, Paul on the other. Ringo with an arm around each of them. Paul drifted, hazily listening to George and Ringo, plucking out imaginary chords with his fingers against his thighs, thinking of the curl of Ringo's lips, of the smoke curling around them like music.
He'd be home someday. But he wasn't going to fit there anymore, was he? This time here had changed him, changed them all, so much. He wasn't a kid anymore. He'd lived a whole lifetime here in Germany, learning so much about the world, about sex, about himself. Maybe, if he was honest about it, a bit more than he'd wanted to know.
Couldn't they just stay here forever? He didn't want to go home and back to his childhood bed, and have to get a job and be ordinary and boring.
Nothing had to change, if they stayed here. Except maybe they could get some better quarters. He pictured it—music every night, every day, people cheering, people laughing, people listening. And a warm bed somewhere quiet, when he needed to be alone and sleep. Or maybe not alone.
He could smell Ringo sometimes, the faint, manly scent of him, past cigarette smoke. It was a good smell. Like everything about Ringo—strong, but not overpowering. Masculine, but kind of gentle, too.
Once Ringo lent him his jacket on a cold night. Paul had been in shirt sleeves when he left the bar, overheated from singing, and then got chilly later. He must've been shivering visibly. Ringo had taken one look at him then shrugged off the jacket and handed it to him like it was nothing. His lovely leather jacket.
Paul tried not to visibly snuggle into it, and he kept his sniffs surreptitious. It felt good to be wrapped up in something of Ringo's, like it was keeping him safe, like it was hugging him. Like Ringo was hugging him, a tight, full-on hug. The jacket was a little small for him—he was broader across the shoulders than Ringo was—but it was okay, he just couldn't close it, had to leave it flapping open like he was a cool rocker, like he was as cool, for a moment, as Ringo Starr himself.
Ringo didn't seem to mind the cold. He laughed and smoked as he walked, and touched Paul's elbow once to steer him away from the curb, where the traffic was getting heavy. And at the end he walked Paul back to the club and accepted his jacket back from him, shrugging into it and wandering away on his own, leaving Paul looking after him, wishing—for something.
Crushes could be hard going.
#
"I want Ringo," said George.
Paul startled, looking at him sharply, for an instant surprised.
George had that stubborn look to his mouth. "I mean it. Pete's not drumming good enough and he keeps not showing up. Ringo is better and I want him."
John put out his cigarette stub and blew a stream of smoke. He was sober, for once, and speaking kind of slowly from exhaustion, leaning forward on the table as if he might put his head down any moment and fall straight to sleep. "Be a trick getting him away from Rory. But sure. Let's try when we get home."
Paul's lips twitched. But what if we don't go home, he wanted to ask. What if we just stay here, with the strippers and the queers and the mad punters we belong with?
John put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. He began to snore.
Paul shut his eyes, grimacing inwardly. He couldn't say any of that anyway. Besides, did he really want to stay? He'd probably miss Liverpool someday, right? Ought to be dreadfully homesick by now, but somehow, it just wasn't hitting him that way.
He got homesick for John, sometimes, for how he used to be. But not for actual home, never that. Sometimes it felt like a vice grip he'd just barely squeezed out of before it killed him. To go back, and try to fit there again—it would be hard.
But he supposed they'd have to.
George gave him a squinting, grouchy look. "I don't care. Ringo's the drummer for us. I want him."
Paul shrugged. "I'm not arguing. He's great."
As far as he was concerned, they couldn't spare any loyalty to an underperforming member, when it was the band that counted, the music. Someone such as Stu, who was not, if you asked Paul, keeping up. Would George back him, if he told John they should kick Stu out?
Well, it didn't matter, did it? He and George together didn't have a vote compared to John's, and John wanted Stu there. Stu had sacrificed a lot, setting aside his art studies to do this with them, and John was determined he'd succeed. But even he had to be seeing that Stu wasn't quite up to it lately, and was really distracted, running around after Astrid. Right?
Paul sighed quietly. It was no good thinking he had any influence over John on this one, because he didn't. John would sometimes listen to him about music, but when it came to Stu, he would just get mad and shut Paul out even more. So best left, then.
"I'm going to ask him about it," said George, getting up. "If we can get him as much as he earns with Rory, if he'll consider switching bands."
"They're on contract," said Paul. "He can't switch now even if he wants to. There's no rush."
"I don't care. I want him to think about it. Come with me?"
Paul hesitated, then got up. He'd let George do the talking, though. For some reason he felt too shy to ask Ringo something like this. George didn't seem to get shy of Ringo.
#
Paul tried not to miss the times when Ringo sang "Boys." Tried to be unobtrusively in the audience, but close enough to hear and see properly.
Just one of the crowd, cheering for Ringo. Feeling like a bit of freak, to be so taken by it that he didn't want to miss a single rendition. All eyes and ears on Ringo Starr—belting out the song, smashing out the beat on his drums. He was great. He would be a wonderful addition to their band, if they could get him.
Paul didn't have a plan, didn't know how they could make it happen. But he watched. He listened. And when he could, he stayed near Starr. It wasn't weird, was it? To just want to be near him? Didn't mean he was actually going to do anything, you know, queer or summat.
Any road, Paul had been with girls enough to prove he definitely wasn't, right? He'd worked very hard at it with girls, finding out; there were definitely no problems with him. Everything worked and he could do it. How it was with John, how he felt about Ringo, that was something extra. Different, sure, but not a big deal.
Most of all, Ringo hadn't done anything, hadn't made a move or said a word. So it was normal, right? To just want to be near him, to hang out. Just a couple of lads. Just a couple of mates.
He wondered if Ringo would mind Paul calling him his mate. Probably not. He seemed to be friends with everyone, why should Paul be the exception?
And it wasn't just him seeking out Ringo, sometimes Ringo found him.
There was still a friendly rivalry between the bands, which should've made it awkward sometimes, but it never felt like it actually was. In the end, they were all strangers in the city, weren't they? Liverpool lads thrown in the deep end of Hamburg, first time out the country, for Paul and his friends. It was just nice to see a friendly face and hear a familiar accent.
When Ringo smiled when he saw Paul, that was best of all. It was like his whole face lit up with an uncomplicated friendliness. Sometimes he'd put his arm around Paul and sometimes he'd pretend to fist fight him in a friendly farce of rivalry.
Sometimes he'd walk right across the room to join Paul, as if as soon as he spotted him, that was where he needed to be. Silly, of course, to feel so good about that. But he did. He always did. It meant something, that it wasn't just him trailing after Ringo like a lost dog.
Ringo liked him, at least a bit.
#
Where's John when you need him? thought Paul miserably. Or Pete, or a bouncer, or anyone really. He didn't want to talk to this gangster, standing awkwardly at their table while the men laughed, and this one pawed at his face, grabbing at his cheek like he was a kid or something. It didn't feel very good, and he couldn't understand what they were saying.
"Well, I've got to go," said Paul awkwardly. "Thanks for the—"
The gangster pulled out a chair and pointed. Paul sighed. It was bad enough they could order them about on stage—demanding certain songs, over and over, sending up drinks and not giving them a chance to refuse, laughing at them, cheering and jeering. Treating them like children or pets or trained monkeys.
Now this, in his brief free time. It wasn't fair. He didn't want anything else to drink, and he didn't want to be pawed at, laughed at, or talked about in that tone when he didn't even understand the words. It felt icky, like he should know—like they knew something about him, and it made them sly, made him something to laugh at.
Had he done something? Had he been particularly strange today, in some way? John had been a lot, but Paul had been good, hadn't he? He'd done what he was supposed to. He'd sang and played till his voice hurt and his fingers bled. What more did they want? He'd already given his all, and then some.
He wished Johnny was here. John always knew what to do, how to get the attention off Paul when people were being—well, he didn't know exactly, but pushy and sort of too close like this. John would start making jokes, or get angry, or get pushy in a way that Paul couldn't quite seem to master. It was like a sixth sense—John knew how to charm and how to bully and how to push people away. Sometimes all three at once.
"Macca?" said a familiar voice, and he turned quick—moving away from the gangster's hand in the process—and looked up at Ringo, approaching them with a lazy walk and a relaxed look to him, but something new in his eyes, an awareness, a sharpness.
Paul pleaded up at Ringo silently with his eyes.
Ringo stood there, lighting a cigarette, shaking out the match excessively long. "Ey, lad, you were meant to be going somewhere with me, remember?"
"Sure," said Paul eagerly. "Sorry."
"S'all right." Ringo's touch on his arm, proprietary, insistent. "Don't let it happen again. Sorry fellas," he addressed the table coolly, without sounding particularly sorry.
Paul got up—nobody stopped him or made him go back and finish any more drinks—and walked off with Ringo, hardly believing it had been that easy. Ringo hadn't even nearly started a fight, the way Johnny would've. But then again maybe he didn't need to. Something about him told you he didn't start fights for fun, but he was going to finish any fights someone started with him.
There was more talk behind them, laughter—but Paul didn't care. He didn't have to care now, and besides, it sounded like they were laughing at the man who'd made him sit, not at Paul anymore.
"Thanks," said Paul as they pushed their way outside. "I don't know why they get like that sometimes." He felt sweaty all down his back, and really, he should be fine. It was over. He was away. He was safe with Ringo.
Ringo made a soft sound, a hum. His face looked rather abstract, like he wasn't going to give anything away to anyone. He took Paul off to eat.
Over pancakes, Ringo brought the subject back up. "You know, lad, you can call a bouncer if that happens again. You're part of the band. Not to be harassed."
Paul looked down. He didn't quite know what Ringo was saying—or maybe he didn't want to know. He nodded, not looking at Ringo now, and not feeling as hungry as he had a moment ago, either.
"You're young," said Ringo quietly, driving the words home with his intense stare, tapping Paul lightly on the wrist, making Paul look at him by the sheer force of his personality. "You're far from home. Stuck in bad quarters. Low on money. And your friends aren't sticking close lately. That makes you vulnerable. That makes you a target to some."
He leaned back, watching Paul, who nodded sheepishly. He wanted to argue, but he couldn't: it was the truth. He was a target, in ways he hadn't agreed to be. It had always been the case, in some circumstances—people who thought he was too soft, that he was trying too hard, that he thought too well of himself, that he looked too girly—there were always things to target if they looked hard enough. But it was all new here, and in some ways more frightening. Because he didn't think that man had wanted to beat him up or laugh at him. Not really. He'd wanted. And he'd seen something in Paul that told him he might be able to have it from him.
Like Paul was on offer. Like they thought he was free for the taking, or maybe available for rent. There were plenty here who were; why pick on Paul? He hadn't done anything.
It was frightening, to be seen that way, when he wasn't even comfortable knowing certain things about himself yet. And maybe never would be. The secret knowledge of what he liked to get up to with Johnny—when John paid attention to him and wanted to—and of just how far he'd be willing to go with Ringo, if the drummer asked.
But now Starr was staring at him with that solemn, heavy blue gaze. "You can come get me, if it gets like that," he said.
Paul nodded miserably. To be seen—it was humiliating. But he was grateful, really. He shouldn't need protection. He was a grown man, plenty old enough to look after himself. But somehow, he didn't have the skills here. And Ringo did.
"Eat," said Ringo. "We'll go to a film or summat. Don't look so sad. You'll be all right."
As long as I go running to you or John or a bouncer, he thought miserably. I should be all right on my own. But he knew he wasn't, and wasn't likely to be anytime soon.
"I mean it though," said Starr. "You can come get me."
Paul nodded, miserably.
"Come on, me lad," said Ringo softly, reaching up to pat lightly at his cheek. "Where's that smile at?"
Somehow it didn't feel at all the way it had when the gangster touched his face. Paul swatted his hand away, trying not to grin too hard.
Ringo didn't talk about it anymore after that, and he was pleasant company, very nice, spending most of their free time together with Paul.
Then Ringo brought him back to his flat for a nap, after the picture they saw together, giving him plenty of space in his bed.
"It's no trouble," he said. "After all, they were practically band mates." He winked.
Maybe Ringo was humouring him. Or maybe George would get his wish. It seemed too good to be true, but then sometimes things were like that. Maybe Ringo was one of those things—they could just have him. Snatch him, steal him, keep him for themselves.
When they woke up, when Paul had to get up and leave for the work, the music, the endless repeat performances, Ringo got serious again. He gave Paul a scarf, wrapping it securely around his neck, tucking it in, a complicated loop. The scarf was flash, nice quality, a dark red woven thing with a large RS embroidered on one end.
"You wear that," said Ringo. "Much as you can."
And Paul blushed, feeling the significance, even if he couldn't put the weight of it into words. Like if someone saw him wearing this, they'd know to keep their hands off. They'd know he belonged to Mr. Starr. Which was silly, because Ringo hadn't even touched him.
He stood back smoking, eyeing Paul up and down critically. "Looks good."
"I can't take your scarf," said Paul, a token protest.
"For now." Ringo lit two cigarettes and gave him one. "You can."
Paul smoothed down the scarf, feeling the raised letters, the RS. Claiming him, marking him as someone's, as Ringo's. He felt strange, and embarrassed, and glad.
"All right."
"Good lad."
Ringo gave him a wink, and shepherded him back to the club. Back to the endless mill of music and make-show, back to the kaleidoscope whirl of music and booze and drugs and women and men. Back to heaven and back to hell, wrapped up, contained, in one small place, where people spilled in and out at all hours, each with their own stories, their own secrets, their own reasons for being there. And now Paul, with his secret—and Ringo's scarf.
He turned to him at the last moment, and said, rather awkwardly, "Thanks."
"Don't thank me." Ringo gave him a wink. "Just play me requests tonight."
"Always," said Paul, and then turned quickly and hurried away before Ringo could see him blushing.