Chapter Text
Y/N stood in the bathroom, both of their hands placed palm-down on the counter, on either side of the sink. They huff and furrow their brow as they glare at their reflection.
Y/N got their hair cut today. Now, it wasn’t bad: it was how their hair was before. Well, almost. This time, Y/N had decided to get proper bangs. Their stylist had given exactly what they asked for, and when they got back to their flat, their flatamate had said they were cute. She seemed genuine about it. She had to be, considering she played with their hair for what felt like forever (not that they minded). Yet something felt off about the new bangs, and that feeling hadn’t gone away no matter how much they tried fluffing them up: if anything that made it worse. But they couldn’t quite place what the off feeling was or meant.
They glanced themself over, taking in their appearance: their haircut, their sad eyes that looked as though they belonged on a scrappy rescue dog rather than a human being, their baggy Beatles t-shirt. It was the same loser they always saw in the mirror: just with bangs now.
Their eyes darted back down to their shirt. The shirt featured all four members of The Beatles: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Y/N’s personal favorite, Ringo Starr. Then they looked back up into their sad rescue dog eyes and at their hair.
Suddenly, it hit them. They looked like a freaking Beatle.
Y/N took their hands off the counter and leaned back. They ran their hand through their hair and let out a small sigh. The door to the bathroom creaked a tiny bit, and a small meow followed. Y/N looked back. One of their cats had let herself in. She walked over to Y/N to rub her head against their ankle. They crouched down next to the cat, affectionately scratching her head in return.
“I look like a Beatle, don’t I?” They murmured to the cat. She mewed and looked up at Y/N with her sweet eyes. They could see it in the way she looked at them: she agreed. Y/N laughed a little and picked up the cat, not caring if her gray hair got onto their clothing. They walked out of the bathroom, not caring to stare at themself in the mirror any longer. They looked exactly like they should be a member of The Beatles! What was going to happen now, were they going to wake up as Ringo Starr tomorrow?!
The cat was starting to get antsy, so Y/N took a seat on the couch in the small living area their flat had and let her scamper off. Then, the door to the flat opened.
“Hey Y/N! Sorry I’m a little late, class lasted longer than I thought, but I did pick up stuff for dinner I can make real fast if you’re hungry right now.” Their flatmate said as she walked in, the bags she had in her hands rustling as she set them on the counter.
Y/N stared ahead at nothing in particular, lost in thought. They couldn’t believe themselves. In all the photos they looked at on Pinterest of the haircut, none of the people looked like any of The Beatles. Meanwhile, here they were, with the same exact haircut, looking exactly like Ringo did in the early 60s. The two of them were practically twins! Y/N couldn’t help but wonder what made them different. Why they could’ve been in the Beatles for Sale or Rubber Soul album covers instead of Ringo and no one would ever be able to tell they weren’t Ringo, but no one else did.
“Y/N?” Their flatmate spoke tenderly. She was standing next to them now, her hand resting on the top of their head. “You okay?”
“Do I look like a Beatle?” Y/N asked, looking up at her. She didn’t speak right away, but she did anxiously smile, and like with the cat, they could see it in her sweet eyes. She thought they did too.
“I do, don’t I? Like Ringo?” They tried to match their flatmate’s anxious smile, to let her know she could say the truth.
“Well, yeah. You do. Not in a bad way though! Ringo’s cute, you’re cute, it’s all okay!” She finally responded. There was a small moment of awkward silence before she decided she would go make that dinner she bought. The two of them ate it together that night, and eventually Y/N stopped thinking about their new look. That night, they were able to rest their head peacefully and drift off into a good deep sleep: the Beatles barely having crossed their mind.
~
The next morning, Y/N woke up to a lot of screaming. It was really quite annoying. Endless shouting. It didn’t sound like someone was in danger: rather it sounded like fangirls when their celebrity crushes walk past them. In fact, it sounded almost identical to all those girls that would scream at the Beatles in that footage in the many, MANY documentaries there were about the Beatles: except this wasn’t a documentary, this was Y/N’s regular, not filmed, life. Y/N wearily looked over to their right: their flatmate was not in the bed with them, like she normally was (They purely share a bed because it’s a one bedroom flat and they could only afford one bed, it’s a completely normal circumstance, and they definitely do not cuddle every single night because they are just flatmates with an average flatmate relationship). Instead, it was empty. Y/N deducted that their flatmate probably was already awake. Which was odd: she had no classes this morning and she liked to sleep in then. Maybe she got up early to watch a Beatles documentary? That would explain the screaming.
Y/N got up out of the bed and looked around the room. Then, they realized: this was not their bedroom at all. It looked a lot more like some sort of hotel room?!? Meaning… they were no longer in their flat with their flatmate and instead in some strange place, and they had to have been kidnapped.
Y/N was going to scream but their chance to was stolen by the sound of the hotel bathroom door opening and a familiar Liverpool accent.
“Ah, Ringo, mate, you’re up! Good, I was worried I’d have to wake you!”
It was George freaking Harrison.
~
Y/N’s flatmate woke up exactly how she likes to on days she doesn’t have class in the morning: after 10am, cuddling with Y/N (as flatmates do, right?). A smile graced her face as she snuggled up next to them just a teensy bit more (because she was cold, not because she wanted to be as close as she possibly could be, obviously).
“Mmm.. good morning, George…”
The smile faded from the flatmate’s face fast. Did Y/N just call her George?!
“Um, sweetheart, my name isn’t George…”
Y/N’s flatmate fully opened her eyes to look at the person she was cuddling with. And it most certainly was not Y/N: it was some strange man with the same haircut! She shrieked and scurried out of the bed with extreme urgency.
“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY LOVELY Y/N.” She shouted, slowly backing away from the bed, or rather, the man in the bed.
“Huh?” The man explained, fully waking himself and sitting up. This man looked really familiar to Y/N’s flatmate. He also sounded as though he was from Liverpool, England. “You’re not George… and who is Y/N?”
Was it her imagination, or was Ringo Starr actually in her bed?