(no subject)
Title: Two
Rating: G
Fandom: Gee.
Pairing: Ringo/Paul. Sortof. Kindof. I cheat so bad, man, this is not really slash.
Author's Notes: Also written for the unusual pairing challenge at beatlesslash.
All of them are going. Or rather, have been going, for twenty odd years now. They weren't the only ones - the rest of the dinosaur bands have been cleaved as well, some clean in half, and all that's left are fat, grey men. Men. That's all they are, not the gods they fooled themselves into believing in right up till middle age. Gods don't have arthritic hands; they don't have checkups for a silent malaise that takes them away at 59 when they should live to 95.
It doesn't happen very often, this one-on-one time together. It's better onstage with a million other people, and spasmodic lighting in colorful hues, and an audience inconspicuously bereft of teen girls. The experience is so unlike the oft-lamented "old days" that it’s tolerable.
Now, though. Now it hurts to see him. All the shit between the four of them, and then the three of them, in the past thirty years is over. They're too old and tired, forgive and forget, right? No, what really hurts is the reminder. Only when they're together does their friends' absence pronounce itself more than ever.
"Can you believe it?" Paul asked.
"The four-headed monster has two heads," said Ringo. He smiled without humor.
Paul nodded soberly and seemed to visibly grapple for words. Instead of speaking, though, he pulled Ringo into a sudden, quick hug.
After he pulled away Ringo gave him a bemused look. "I'm flattered, but we're not young anymore."
A real smile. Brilliant.
Rating: G
Fandom: Gee.
Pairing: Ringo/Paul. Sortof. Kindof. I cheat so bad, man, this is not really slash.
Author's Notes: Also written for the unusual pairing challenge at beatlesslash.
All of them are going. Or rather, have been going, for twenty odd years now. They weren't the only ones - the rest of the dinosaur bands have been cleaved as well, some clean in half, and all that's left are fat, grey men. Men. That's all they are, not the gods they fooled themselves into believing in right up till middle age. Gods don't have arthritic hands; they don't have checkups for a silent malaise that takes them away at 59 when they should live to 95.
It doesn't happen very often, this one-on-one time together. It's better onstage with a million other people, and spasmodic lighting in colorful hues, and an audience inconspicuously bereft of teen girls. The experience is so unlike the oft-lamented "old days" that it’s tolerable.
Now, though. Now it hurts to see him. All the shit between the four of them, and then the three of them, in the past thirty years is over. They're too old and tired, forgive and forget, right? No, what really hurts is the reminder. Only when they're together does their friends' absence pronounce itself more than ever.
"Can you believe it?" Paul asked.
"The four-headed monster has two heads," said Ringo. He smiled without humor.
Paul nodded soberly and seemed to visibly grapple for words. Instead of speaking, though, he pulled Ringo into a sudden, quick hug.
After he pulled away Ringo gave him a bemused look. "I'm flattered, but we're not young anymore."
A real smile. Brilliant.