Chapter Text
The show had gone on too long.
Not literally, the timing was probably normal enough but by the end of it they all had that particular frayed feeling that came after too much noise, too much heat, too many people reaching for them all at once.
Security pushed them down corridors while voices and screams echoed behind them. Fans packed against barriers outside exits, flashes bursting white against tired eyes.
“Move, move—”
“We are moving.” John snapped back automatically.
Paul kept his head down, one hand briefly against George’s shoulder to keep them together through the crush of bodies.
Ringo followed behind them, quieter than usual. Not entirely in a bad way, he just couldn’t shake the feeling of unease in his stomach. It was probably post-show adrenaline anyways.
By the time they got into the car, the energy had started wearing off in ugly little pieces.
John sprawled back against the seat with a groan.
“I’m deaf now.”
“Yer already blind,” George muttered. “Can’t be both.”
Paul laughed faintly.
Ringo rested his head briefly against the window. He watched as the manic crowd faded away into little smudges from afar.
The motion of the car made his stomach feel odd. Every bump that was driven over made him feel all sour and swirly.
He rubbed at the side of his face absently. There was a strange pressure in his temple.
Dull.
Persistent.
“Y’alright back there?” Paul asked, glancing over.
Ringo blinked once, then nodded.
“Ta, just tired.”
“Think we all are.” George said quietly.
John made a vague noise of agreement. The conversation drifted after that. No one had the energy for much else.
The hotel suite was blessedly dim when they finally got back.
Jackets dropped over chairs, shoes kicked aside. John disappeared immediately to find solace in the minibar.
Paul started fussing with curtains for reasons known only to himself.
George sat heavily at the edge of one of the beds, rubbing both hands over his face.
Ringo stood still for a second too long in the middle of the room. His head pulsed again. Sharper this time. He winced faintly. Then it passed.
“You coming to bed or dying standin’ up?” John asked from across the room.
Ringo looked over.
“Bit of both.”
That got a tired snort from George.
It took longer than usual for Ringo to settle.
The room felt too warm. Then too cold.
His heartbeat felt oddly heavy in his throat. He drank some water and stared vaguely at nothing for a minute, maybe more. Who was keeping track anyway.
He eventually found himself in his nightshirt and boxers and already crawling under the covers. The others were already half-gone with exhaustion around him.
The lamps clicked off one by one. Darkness settled.
Quiet.
Sleep came to Ringo almost too fast. Like he was plunked straight into water and just kept sinking.
The dream started wrong immediately.
Noise. Worse than screaming somehow. A low, distorted roar pressing in from every direction. Lights burned white overhead.
Too bright. Too hot.
He was onstage. Or near it. No, not quite. Something was different.
People were running. Someone shouting.
A crack splitting through the air loud enough to rattle through his ribs. Then another. Panic moved through the crowd all at once. Raw, too real. Ringo turned sharply, heart hammering. It felt like he was being pulled from all directions. The stage lights flickered blood-red against faces he couldn’t fully see. Someone yanked him hard by the arm—
“DOWN!”
The voice distorted horribly. Everything twisted.
Then—
A flash.
White hot searing pain exploded through his temple.
Back in the hotel room, Ringo jerked violently in bed, a sharp breath tearing out of him.
George stirred first from being right beside him in the shared beds, partially awake and frowning in the dark.
Ringo was mumbling something too low and incomprehensible to discern.
“No—”
The word came rough and strained from somewhere deep asleep.
John cracked one eye open from across the room. “What’s he on about?”
George listened.
Ringo’s breathing sounded wrong. Fast. Uneven. Like he was running.
“—stop—”
A twitch ran through Ringo’s arm. Then another. His head shifted sharply against the pillow. Paul pushed himself halfway upright now, next to John, sleep-heavy and confused.
“What’s happening?”
“Bad dream.” George muttered, his eyes never leaving Ringo.
But he didn’t sound convinced. Bad dreams usually passed over time but Ringo seemed to worsen and worsen by the minute. His hands had clenched tight into the sheets now, breaths coming sharper every few seconds. His face made a sharp, pained expression like he was losing a battle of something he couldn’t wake up from.
In his “dream”, the noise became unbearable. Crowds crushing forward, security yelling…another deafening crack in the air.
The pain returned. White-hot through the side of his head. Warm liquid ran down over his mouth. He was bleeding out.
Ringo made a strangled noise in his sleep.
Paul sat up fully now, grogginess replaced with adrenaline.
“Rings?”
No response. His whole body jerked once more against the mattress.
Then suddenly,
Ringo shot upright. A violent inhale ripping into the dark room.
Everyone startled. George swung his legs and jumped off the bed immediately, now stood in front of it. John swore under his breath. Paul was already moving across the room.
“Hey—hey—”
Ringo looked terrified. Not startled awake. Terrified. His eyes darted around the room like he didn’t recognize where he was for a second.
He was breathing too fast. Hands shaking violently.
Blood.
A thick stream gushing suddenly from his nose, straight over his mouth and chin.
Paul froze.
“Christ.”
Ringo grabbed at his face instinctively, staring down at the blood on his hand like he didn’t understand it. The headache hit full force then. He sucked in sharply, one hand flying to his temple.
“Fucking hell.”
His whole body curled slightly forward with it. George was back at the bed properly now.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said quickly.
John grabbed the lamp beside him, flooding the room with weak yellow light. Ringo looked awful in it.
Pale, hair soaked in sweat; his bangs were sticky against his forehead. He breathed too hard. Fast enough his chest hurt. Blood still slipping between his fingers.
“Take it easy,” Paul said immediately, grabbing tissues from the bedside table and pressing them carefully into Ringo’s hand.
“Tilt forward a bit.” Ringo obeyed automatically, though he still looked dazed.
George crouched beside the bed now, studying him carefully. More worried than startled.
“Y’alright?”
“No,” Ringo said, bluntly. His voice crackled, it sounded small.
John hovered near the end of the bed, unusually quiet now.
“That was some dream,” mostly muttering to himself but loud enough for the others to pick up on it.
The other two didn’t pay mind to it but Ringo looked up sharply at that. Something strange flickered across his pallor face.
Raw fear.
Paul noticed immediately.
“What?”
Ringo swallowed hard. His hands were still shaking. He looked up at Paul, then John, then George. They all expected something from him but he couldn’t quite find the words yet. He looked down at his bloody hands.
“…something bad is going to happen tomorrow,” he mumbled, a little cryptic.
The room stilled slightly.
George frowned and cautiously sat on the bed, back beside Ringo.
“What d’you mean?”
Ringo pressed harder against the pounding pain in his temple, images still burned behind his eyes.
Crowds. Noise. Running. Blood.
“At our next show,” he mumbled.
There was something about the way he said it. Ringo usually jokes around a bit to lighten the mood but there was no humour in his tone.
The other three snuck uneasy “What’s happening?” glances with one another.