Chapter Text
Richard awoke with a gasp, body jolting against the sheets, eyes and throat as dry as the desert, disoriented and confused. His heart felt like it might just beat out of his chest, skipping every second beat and leaping over his ribs, trying to escape.
Placing a shaky hand over his chest, right above his heart, he slowly began to sit up. His arms were trembling so badly he thought he might just collapse back down onto the mattress again and his fingers were bunching up the loose fabric of his shirt, fingernails digging into his skin as he tried to calm his frantic heartbeat.
The breaths he took in were shaky and hitching, his diaphragm not wanting to cooperate with him.
Richard swung his legs over the side of the small bed, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in the sweaty palms of his hands. He scrubbed his fingers up and down his face, as if trying to physically erase the fractured memories of his dream—his nightmare.
Though, calling it a ‘nightmare’ felt childish. Richard wasn’t a child anymore.
Peeking through his fingers and staring into the dark of the hotel room, it all felt too quiet. Too achingly quiet. Rich was used to the screaming fans, the thuds of amps being placed, the crashing banging of his drums in his ears. He was used to the noise.
He’s been used to it ever since he was young. (But he’s choosing not to think about that right now.)
His once bright blue eyes, now exhausted with something more than sleep, flicked over to the nightstand beside him. He eyed the tall glass of water like it was something holy.
Reaching out with a clumsy, still half-asleep hand, he almost knocks the damned glass over before being able to pick it up and inhale its contents with surprising speed.
For the next several minutes, he tried to go back to sleep. He really did, you must believe him! But alas, stubbornly, sleep did not come.
(He couldn’t get the yelling out of his head.)
With a heavy sigh, he stood up from his bed, his body feeling heavy and unsteady, he began to walk somewhere with no real destination in mind.
There was no one to talk to—it was far too late for anyone to be up. Brain was definitely asleep, he’d definitely gone to sleep ages ago, as always. John and Paul have almost certainly stopped giggling away and have gone their separate ways, and George was probably snoring in a lovely little dream about one of the girls he saw today.
Nonetheless, Richard found his feet carrying him down the hotel hallway, keys jangling in hand (when did he pick that up?), towards George Harrison’s door.
George had given the double of his keys to Richard, ‘just in case,’ he had said. Which was weird—because the other two boys had kept theirs in case they found a bird around who wanted to sneak in and out without raising suspicion.
Unlocking the door with the extra set of keys, the sound like a thunderclap in the quiet, 2am air of the hotel, Richard toed inside and locked the door behind him.
“…George?” He whispered, placing the keys softly on the cabinet next to the door. “Georgie, are you awake?” He stepped a little further into the room, and was met with the sight of George fast asleep.
Rich felt a little pang of guilt for selfishly wanting to wake him up, but his need for something (someone) overpowered it quicker than it could take over his mind.
George woke with a soft intake of air, blinking his eyes open and rubbing them with a knuckle. He propped himself up on his elbows, blearily scanning the room for the source of noise. His hair was skewed, his vision blurry, and his mind still foggy with the remnants of sleep.
His eyes locked on Richard’s. Richard, who was standing in front of his bed, fiddling with his fingers, drumming a little pattern of the back of one hand.
“…Rings? Wh… what’s wrong? What are—why…” George struggled for words as his brain caught up with the transformation from asleep to awake, and his voice was cut off with a long yawn.
Richard stepped closer to the bed, not making eye contact, moving up to the side of the mattress.
George’s eyes filled with concern, laced with a slight confusion. “Ringo, what’s wrong?” He croaked out, his voice hoarse and unused.
Rich swallowed thickly. His throat was dry again. “…didn’t feel like sleepin’ in me own bed, s’all… t-too quiet in there…” his voice was barely a mutter, and his cheeks were flushed pink with an embarrassment that was only now catching up with him.
He felt like a child seeking comfort from a parent.
George’s sleep-muddled brain caught up quickly, and he shifted his body almost immediately. Grabbing the edge of the duvet with one hand and flipping it open, he silently invited Ringo to join him in the small, cramped bed.
Richard crawled in slowly, almost like an easily-startled deer, just waiting for the predator to come out.
Once finally settled, George wrapped his arms around Ringo’s back, pulling him close to his chest, close enough that Ringo could feel the other man’s heartbeat through his shirt.
Richard reciprocated almost instantly, placing his large hands low on George’s back, his nose tucked into the junction of George’s neck and shoulder.
With the taller man’s chin resting atop Richard’s head, he could feel the vibrations of George speaking on his forehead. “…do you want to talk about it?”
Rich shakes his head subtly against George’s collarbone. “…in th’mornin’…” his voice was muffled against George’s shirt—which was probably for the best. Richard could feel the tears stinging at his eyes.
George says nothing in return, just tightens his grip on Ringo’s waist, tangling their legs together.
This is what Richard loves about George. He would always understand, and never ask for anything in return. Always giving. Always, always.
Rich thinks he might like George more than the other boys—just a bit. Not that he doesn’t love John and Paul, but… there’s something different about George. Something he doesn’t know how to name.
With that thought in his head, Richard begins the slow, steady trip to sleep. His breathing and heartbeat slow in time with George’s, and his mind finally goes blank.
…
“George! You in there? Get up, it’s time for breakfast you little runt!”
Paul’s voice cuts through the morning haze like a knife, slicing the wonderful, quiet moment both George and Richard hadn’t yet realised they’d created.
George blinked his eyes open, and grumbled a response. “Alright, alright, we’ll—I’ll be there in a minute.”
His hands are still around Ringo’s waist, their legs still tangled up in a knot of vulnerability. Shaking Ringo lightly by the shoulder, George leans in close to his ear. “Ringo… it’s time to get up, love. Brekky’s already on the table…” his voice is warm, soft, soothing. Like a mother’s embrace.
Richard slowly opens his eyes, and his gaze locks onto George’s. George is smiling—that wide-toothed grin of pure beauty that Richard loves to see. His canines are most prominent in these smiles.
George doesn’t smile often, but when he does it’s practically radiant. Like God’s good angels have blessed you.
“Good morning, Ringo,” George murmurs, pressing a teasing kiss to Ringo’s forehead, smack in the middle of it.
They don’t kiss often—and when they do, it’s usually mocking, or teasing. And it’s usually George kissing Richard, almost never the other way around.
However, feeling bold on this particular morning, Richard leans up and plants a kiss right on the tip of George’s nose, then pulls back with the goofiest smile known to man. “Top of the mornin’ to you too, lad.”
The two men get dressed and ready fairly quickly, Richard having to sneak out of George’s hotel room like a stripper (a fact they snigger over before Ringo leaves) and back to his own room.
The two of them make their way down the elevator and to the dining room, where the other band members are waiting.
…
John and Paul are bickering over something on the menu, Paul holding the folded paper up and shoving it in John’s hands.
“…its not right, John, that’s not—“ Paul begins, before his attention falls to their approaching friends. “Ahh, and the lads finally arrive! Thanks for joining us, at last.” He says it sweetly, but there’s a mock of sarcasm in his words.
John rolls his eyes and gives each man a warm grin. “Mornin’. Paulie’s just actin’ like this because we’ve got a loose schedule today. He wants to go do fuckin’ everything today.” He smirks, giving a teasingly pointed look to Paul, who sits across from him.
Ringo looks at George, and George looks at Ringo. They both laugh heartily, sitting down in the seats across from each other.
The four of them start their morning chatter, bantering, bickering, laughing, and planning. Paul wants to go out and see the city they’re in (Rich doesn’t even remember quite where), John wants to visit a nice shop he heard about, and George wants to stay in for a little while and rest. Richard doesn’t know what he wants.
Zoned out and deep in thought about how he wants to use the free time they have today, his elbow shifts a little too close to the edge, sending a small glass mug of coffee over the side of the tablecloth.
“Shite!” Richard’s eyes widen as the glass shatters with a loud crash in the dining room. Suddenly, all eyes are on him. He feels his shoulders tense, his body instinctually shrink in on itself, and his eyes prickle with unshed tears.
Leaning over his chair, he drops to his knees and starts picking up the broken shards with his bare hands, eyes frantically flicking this way and that, unable to stay still. His breathing has sped up, his heart doing a frantic little drumbeat in his chest, desperate to escape.
“I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—um,” Richard’s hands shake as he holds the pieces, which makes them chatter like teeth in his grip.
A waiter approaches Richard where he kneels, and makes the mistake of moving too quickly. Richard’s fingers tighten around the glass, and he doesn’t even realize until the blood from his hand drips down onto pants.
“Sir, please don’t touch that with your b—“ the poor waiter starts, but doesn’t get to finish as Richard drops the broken glass into the trash bin the waiter holds up.
Rich stands up quickly, so quickly he feels lightheaded, his eyes flickering to his friend’s faces at the table. They’re all looking back at him.
They all look stunned.
George’s eyes flick down to Richard’s palms, the bleeding cuts ranging from small grazes to deep, weeping wounds.
Rich hisses softly as his fingers flex, his rings now stained bright red, the hot liquid seeping into the curves and crevasses in his jewelry.
“Ringo—wait!” George is the first to react as Richard turns and leaves, head down, hands clasped tightly together, his feet carrying him across the room with a surprising efficiency.
…
Richard grits his teeth together as he shoves his bloodied hands beneath the stream of water, the red liquid staining the porcelain sink and flowing down the drain. He makes a noise halfway between a sob and a whimper as he begins to gently scrub at the cuts on his palms.
His rings lay on the edge of the sink, still bloody, the red mixing with the black and gold and silver.
His mind won’t seem to shut up, his thoughts running wild around his brain, yelling and whispering things he wouldn’t dare say out loud.
(Stupid, stupid, stupid)
(Ignorant)
(Child)
(Good for nothing)
(Useless)
It’s not his voice, though. It’s someone else’s—someone who hurt him. Someone who kept hurting him. Someone who wouldn’t stop hurting him.
His breath is knocked from his lungs as he hears a soft knock on the door, that sounds thousands of times louder in the quiet room. The sudden noise breaks him from his thoughts.
“…Ringo? Are… are you in there, mate?” George’s voice. Soft and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break the other man with a simple harsh breath.
Richard swallows hard, forcing the lump in his throat to go down, back to the guilty pit of his stomach. It takes him a long moment, but he eventually manages to croak out a pathetic response. “…y-yeah.” His voice doesn’t sound like his—instead just the hollow shell of his usually boisterous, humorous voice.
Richard’s hands are braced on either side of the sink, his arms struggling to hold up his own weight. His breathing hasn’t quite come down, and his eyes are still brimming with tears he can’t let George see.
“Can I come in?” George, again, calls from outside the bathroom door. He must have let himself into his hotel room, using the spare key that Richard had given him.
When Rich doesn’t answer, the knob on the door turns and he starts to panic. Quickly wiping his eyes on the back of a towel, he turned with his hands behind his back, fingers painting the porcelain red accidentally.
He must look a mess, judging by the look on George’s face. George is looking at him with a profound pity, and a certain sadness that he can’t hide behind his resting serious face.
Richard hated it. He hated being pitied—he’d been pitied his whole life. “I’m fine, George.” He grits out, his voice uncharacteristically monotone and hard.
George doesn’t believe it for a second. He can see the watery look in Ringo’s eyes, and the way his hands are subtly shaking behind his back. “Rin…” he starts, but stops when the shorter man turns off the tap and pushes past him forcefully, leaving the cold bathroom.
George eyes the four rings sitting on the sink edge.
“I’m sorry I walked out like that. I—I don’t know what came over me,” Richard lies through his teeth, not able to look George in the eye, sitting on the edge of his bed.
George walked around carefully to stand in front of Ringo, looking down at him, trying to find a clue to what might be going around in his mind.
George practically ignores what Rich says. “…let me see your hands, please.” George crouched down, trying to catch Ringo’s gaze, as the shorter finally presented his battered hands.
There is a larger, deeper cut on his left hand, and much smaller ones on his right. George couldn’t help the slight sympathetic wince that crossed his face as he looked at the gashes. He stood up, leaving Ringo’s side momentarily and rummaged around in the bathroom cabinets, eventually producing a small medical kit.
With careful, slightly trembling slender fingers, George used a roll of gauze to wrap up Ringo’s hands, keeping a gentle pressure on them to stop the bleeding, occasionally letting up when Ringo made a face or winced.
As Richard looked down at George, who was being so careful he might as well have been the one handling glass, he felt himself start to cry. Shameful tears started to prick at his eyes, and he forced himself to look up, trying his best to blink away the pain—not just the physical of his hands.
His hands now gently wrapped, the bleeding stagnant, Ringo clenches and unclenches his fingers, testing his grip. His left hand is harder to move than his right, a fact he mentally curses himself about. It’ll make it harder to drum that evening—but he’d deal with that later.
He just needed to make sure he didn’t cry in front of George. Needed to make sure he didn’t cry in front of George. Cry in front of George. Cry—
Suddenly, Richard blinks, and his face is being cradled by slender, calloused fingers. He can feel George’s thumbs swiping under his eyes, and a pitiful little choked off involuntary sound rips itself from Richard’s throat, one he can’t quite stifle in time.
He had been crying. Tears had fallen from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks without him noticing.
Finally looking back up to catch George’s eyes, who looks oh so confused and worried, Richard can feel the sobs building in his chest, making his throat tight, and his heart ache.
George looked up at Ringo’s face from where he knelt, his fingers trembling slightly as he held the older man’s face, trying desperately to figure out what was happening behind Ringo’s eyes. George hoped Ringo didn’t notice how desperate he was.
He did. And it made everything worse.
Richard suddenly buries his face in his own hands, forcing George’s slender fingers away, and he starts to cry. Really cry. (Like a child, a child) Wet, broken sobs echo out from his chest, reaching George’s ears and his own like out of key notes.
Richard felt like a broken instrument. Making noise on his own, unable to stop himself, his strings loose, his bolts rusty and crumbling. He felt (worthless)
George didn’t know what to say. He’d known Ringo for a while now—and he’d never seen him break down like this. He mentally recounted everything that had happened in the last couple days, picking out anything that might have triggered this breakdown.
…Overwhelming day prior
…Bad dream
…John and Paul arguing?
…Tea cup at breakfast
…Bad dream.
George had a subtle feeling that there was a correlation between the bad dream and the current moment.
He just had to figure out what it was.
George’s fingers crept up to Ringo’s bandaged ones, gently coercing them down from his face. It broke his heart to see the look in Ringo’s eyes—the look of a man who’d just reverted back to a boy. The tear tracks, shaky hands, and disconnected eyes that wouldn’t meet his own told George everything he needed to know.
He pulled Ringo into an embrace so fast the other man barely had time to react. All Ringo got out was a gasp, but by then he was already trapped in George’s arms, muffled into his shoulder.
Rich didn’t even really recognise he was doing it before it had already happened. His own arms were tightly wound around George’s torso, his aching fists bunched up into the other’s shirt—wrinkling it—but George couldn’t have cared less if he tried.
“Tell me what’s wrong, love. Tell me what happened,” George murmured, his voice soft next to Ringo’s ear, his fingers sliding up into the other man’s hair.
“…was it that dream you had last night? You came to see me?” By the way the shorter man in his arms tensed, George guessed that he was correct, and spot on at that.
Subtly, he felt a small, minuscule nod against his shoulder. “Alright… you want t’talk about it?” He pulled back just enough to look Ringo in the eyes, and he immediately saw the embarrassment and shame written in every tear that wouldn’t fall.
Richard finally forced his voice through the heavy lump in his throat, though it came out strained and croaky. “Not-not really, George…” he let out a wet laugh that sounded more like a disguised sob than an actual laugh, and he tried his best to wipe the tears from his eyes.
George waited a few more seconds, just letting himself be close to the other man in case he needed to close that distance again.
Rich cleared his throat and pulled back to try and finally look George in the eyes (polite, be polite).
“Good,” George whispered while stroking the nape of Ringo’s neck (good, good boy). “That’s fine, Rings.”
Rich felt that familiar twist of something in his gut, the same horrible feeling he’d always have as a child. He couldn’t get that damned voice out of his head, the voice of his—
Richard must have jerked away, because suddenly the sensation of George’s fingers in his hair was ripped away. Ringo’s hand shot out and caught George’s slim wrist, holding him tight—maybe a little too tight—and looking at him with pleading eyes.
“Wait-“ Ringo exclaimed, “don’t stop. God, please don’t stop,” his words all came out in one big rush of air, like he couldn’t bear to say them. George instantly returned his hand to its spot in Ringo’s hair.
In a chain of events both of them were too awkward and embarrassed to recount to any living soul, Ringo ended up in George’s lap. Well, his head did.
Ringo’s head was turned to the side, rested gently on George’s thighs, the taller man’s hand buried in his hair, his fingers combing through the soft brown mop.
Ringo fiddled with a loose thread on George’s jeans.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted suddenly, “for walkin’ out like that.”
George decided that it might be for the best if he stayed quiet. He had a gut feeling Ringo would continue if he was just there enough.
There was quiet between them for a long moment, and George began to think maybe he was wrong, that Ringo wouldn’t continue speaking. But alas,
“You ever… hm,” Ringo paused, carefully picking his words. “D’you ever wish you were just, an octopus, like?”
George simply blinked. His simple answer was no. He’d never thought that. His better answer was “like, underwater?” A stupid question, but it was something to keep the man in his lap speaking.
“Yeah. Under the waves, in the shade of everythin’. Like, under rocks an’ all”
George went quiet for a beat. What does one say to that? Is Ringo implying something George is too daft to notice?
“Do you?” He settled on. His voice was quiet, not prodding or poking, but offering up room for an answer if Ringo would give him one.