Orange Collision; ch 33
Title: Orange Collision
Pairings: John/Paul, George/Ringo Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations
Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific. Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home. Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...
A/N: I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.
A/N2: I just thought, “It’s been awhile, why the hell not?”
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.
Previous Chapters
Chapter 33 - Day 52
When he’d pictured this day in his head, he’d thought about a confluence of whooping and smiling, consistent with any reunion, and that, with Mal in tow, he and his mates would have headed into Brian’s hut, talked secretively about what had happened during Mal’s absence, and ended the night with a couple rounds of nonexistent lager.
What he hadn’t considered, though, was just how much time they’d spent on the island. Just how much their little circle had welcomed the other survivors. So much so that, not even five minutes after Mal’s return, Frisby and Jessica had wasted no time in running up and hugging Mal, asking frantically if he was alright.
Now they were all seated around one of Frisby’s master fires, sharing food and talking amicably, Mal at the apex.
“Sure you don’t want anything more to eat?” Jessica asked, eyeing Mal’s empty plate.
He shrugged, “No, no thank you. I feel like I’ve eaten everything on the island already.”
“Looks like it too,” John smirked, his voice light and affectionate. George could still remember the look of relief on John’s face when he had seen Mal lumbering towards the hut, could still remember ‘Thank Jesus’ tumbling from his lips.
Mal just laughed and pushed his glasses up his nose, looking down at his folded hands. The time had to come, he was surprised that it hadn’t already, in which they’d have to talk about what had happened. So far they’d just hung around, eating and chatting about things that really didn’t matter too much. But he supposed that was just to ease everyone into it. Everyone but him, of course, because the averted topic was starting to put him on-edge. A few times he’d been tempted to just outright ask Mal what had happened in the forest, he had a tendency to blurt out such things, but he sat still and kept quiet.
Ringo was a great distraction. He’d put on a nice face, was whistling and banging his knee against his, making warmth sprint through his body. George remembered how pissed he’d been at Ringo merely a few hours ago. And he was glad that was over.
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting-had he really thought that Ringo was going to give him a fucking ring? Had he really thought that he was going to try … he didn’t even want the ring-they weren’t fucking birds! How had that thought even crossed his mind?
He looked back at the hut, wondering if Ringo was going to follow him, and was filled with relief when the curtain remained stationary. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation. He could fucking work through his anger on his own.
Besides, it wasn’t like there was anything to remedy. It was simple-they had made the mutual agreement-something nonspecific and flimsy-and now they were in the same place that they had been in at the beginning. A simple measure of misunderstanding-he wasn’t about to be a ponce about it and tell Ringo that he wanted them to be more… and what was wrong with just being mates anyway? It had worked for all those years-why was everything becoming fucked up now?
George hadn’t realized that he’d been pacing quickly and shuffling his hair into an unruly mess. Not until John and Paul had shown up, both in distinctly irritating moods.
“Ah Paul, look what we have here!” John announced, breaking him out of his thoughts and causing him to jump about a mile out of his skin.
“Could it be?” Paul responded, gazing at him curiously, “Could it be a member of the mythological Harrison species?”
“It is, it is. Look at how he stares with those sunken eyes! He’s trying to be intimidating. It seems we’ve stepped into his territory.”
“Corr…and the way he was pacing before-”
“Obviously some sort of mating ritual. I suspect he hasn’t had any for a very long time.”
“Now he’s rolling his eyes,” Paul said, dramatically grabbing John’s arm, “What do you reckon that means?”
“He’s probably about ready to attack. Quick, go and knock him out before he pounces!”
“Me?”
“Well I don’t want him scratching up my face, now do I?”
George snorted. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with their antics, “Piss off.”
“Oh come on George. What’s the matter? You can tell ol’ granny,” John was batting his eyes at him, speaking in that shrill voice, and creepily rubbing small circles on his arm.
George jerked away, “Nothing.”
John sighed loudly and turned to Paul, “And here we find ourselves, once again, in the presence of a moody George Harrison.”
“George, you alright?” Paul ignored John, thankfully.
“Yeah fine,” he snapped, “Just leave it alone.”
“Come on John, he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Paul shrugged. George nodded his thanks before planting himself in the sand and looking at the waves. He was rather bored of the view, actually. Had seen it so many fucking times-what was the point? Where was the beauty? The real beauty, he was starting to think, was back at the docks of Liverpool, where everything was fucking normal.
“Well what else are we gonna do all day?” John spat before sitting down next to George. He sighed and wrung his hands in frustration. He was starting to think that he’d never have any peace as long as John Lennon existed.
“Seriously John. Just leave it!”
“Does this have anything to do with Ringo?” he asked and George felt like his stomach had caved in. He threw an incredulous look at John before glancing at Paul, who seemed to be awkwardly viewing the conversation. He swore to fucking God, if John told Paul about him and Ringo-
“Ah, so it does, then,” John nodded. George wondered if he could choke him without Paul interfering.
“What?! It’s not about Ringo!”
“George,” John started, putting an arm around his shoulder, “Listen to me very carefully, son. We’re your mates. We’re your mates who fucking survived a plane crash! Don’t get pissed over stupid shite.”
He scoffed. Hypocritical words coming from John, considering that he was still holding that stupid grudge against Brian. Best not to mention that now, though.
“Yeah.” Oh God, Paul was getting in on this, sitting down on the other side of George and putting an arm around him as well, “We’ve all survived so, you know, you’ve just got to think about that. Whenever something happens, just think about that. We’re all lucky, you know.”
“Being angry all the time is no use for you, anyroad. You’re already starting to look like an old man.”
“Oh thanks,” he responded sarcastically, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You two are a couple of dolts, you know that?” he said, looking at each of them in turn. John smiled spastically.
“Oh but you love us!” he said, quite camp, “Give us a kiss!”
“No!” George screeched.
It was too late. John leaned forward and started licking the side of his face with his disgusting, prickly tongue, and Paul, John’s corrupted creation, was humming “Love Me Do” while hugging him tightly. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought that they were either high or had just had sex, but both were impossible. Unless they had something with Jessica that he didn’t know about.
To escape this, George first tried to shrink away from their queer embraces, hoping that he’d somehow cave in on himself and sink into the sand. But Paul’s arms were around him too tightly, so when that didn’t work, he flailed and wiggled around as spastically as he could until he was able to jump up and back away from them.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed, wiping John’s slobber off his face, listening as they laughed hysterically, “You two are a couple of fairies.”
“How could I resist after that mating ritual?” John deadpanned as he stood. Paul was still twitching and laughing on the ground. “Anyroad, you’re coming with us.”
“What? Where?” he blurted. They had just got through molesting him-they were barking if they thought he was going anywhere with them!
“Just over that way,” Paul pointed to a place behind his head, “There’s this tree…and there are loads of mangoes on it. But they’re too high up and John can’t reach-”
“Paul more like,” John inserted.
“-So we need your head to stand on.”
George snorted incredulously, “What?!”
“No, no it’s fine,” Paul said, standing up in swell of energy, “John’ll be on the bottom, you know, the support and such…and I’ll go next, and you can stand on my shoulders. Or, you know, wrap your legs around. That might be easier.”
“And no, we’re not talking about sex.”
George blinked. “As great as that description sounds,” he started, looking at them with a raised eyebrow, “I think I’ve got…other things to do.”
“Don’t be a ponce. We have to eat, don’t we?” John argued, “Don’t make us take Ringo. We’ll only end up failing and you know how tattered his self esteem already is.”
“And we gave you that great advice, remember?” Paul chirped, pointing a finger at him.
George was reeling, “Wait, so you lot licked my face because you needed me to help you reach a few mangoes?!”
“Oh there are more than a few, son. I don’t lick anyone’s face unless I approve of the payoff.”
Alright, George sighed, alright. Despite their annoying methods, they did have good intentions. And he supposed he wasn’t as angry over the Ringo situation as he had been before. Whether that was due to their somewhat amusing jokes, or the natural phenomenon of distraction, was irrelevant. Point was, they were involved, and the least he could do was help out the camp and procure a few more mangoes.
“Fine. Okay. I’ll help.”
“Ho!” John jumped, patting George on the back as the three of them started off towards the forest. They passed by their hut and George looked at it out of habit, knowing that Ringo was inside. He wondered what he was doing-shining his rings and thinking about clouds or something like that. Ringo didn’t appear to care about anything, to know anything. He bit the inside of his mouth and tried not to become angry again. He was starting to think that there was something seriously wrong with him. Perhaps the secluded island habitat was fucking with his brain.
“George,” John said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, speaking in hushed tones, “Just think of it this way-remember that time we were at the Cavern and Ringo and Mo were talking and Mo was upset because Rings told her that he forgot how they met?”
He frowned, “Yeah but what’s that got to do with anything?”
John smiled.
Maybe the drink was making everything funnier, but he was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. And he hardly knew why. But Ringo was improvising a truly terrible song and Tidbits’ ears were practically glued to the back of her head as she stared at him with bulging yellow eyes. George almost started choking on his fish.
Okay, so Ringo was a bit clueless but he couldn’t help it, could he? He wasn’t doing it malevolently. And, well, an hour ago Ringo had seemed willing to do… something. Maybe it would be a bit on and off-but that was better than not being mates, wasn’t it?
“So Mal,” John said, everyone going silent, “What happened?”
It was the question that had been hovering around for a long time, the question that people had been too nervous to ask. George silently rejoiced and snapped his eyes to Mal, everyone else following in his lead.
“Oh. Yeah, when did you lot get back?” Mal asked.
“Ages ago. Two weeks, I think,” Paul said.
“Yeah. Well. Brian and I didn’t know where you were so I said I’d go and see if I could find you,” he responded and George realized that this was the most that he had heard him speak since Neil’s death, “And yeah, that’s what I did. I looked. When I couldn’t find ya, I came back.”
“Did you see anything?” John asked, his eyes focused. Mal shifted.
“No, I mean, I didn’t see anything. Except for, you know, trees.”
“Did you stop by the waterfall?” Frisby asked, folding his hands over his lap.
“Oh…um… Yes. I needed water. It’s very beautiful.”
“It is. We missed you around here. Jessica’s taken up fishing.”
“I still can’t catch as many as you,” she said with a shrug. Mal smiled and nodded in her direction.
“Thank you.”
“Did you get hurt at all? Do you want me to check anything out?” she asked.
“No. I don’t think so. I might have a cut or two…”
George looked over at Ringo-he was about to make a joke about how, for once, Ringo wasn’t the one who needed all the medical attention, but froze when he saw a series of intense looks pass between him and Paul.
“Mal,” Paul asked, his voice casual, “So you didn’t see anything while you were in there?” Ah, George understood. Paul was probably thinking about Nicole.
Mal shook his head, “No. Sorry.”
“Well,” John chirped, “Good to have you back, mate!”
Agreement spread throughout and soon everyone had succumbed to light conversation, Mal and Brian in their own somewhat intense bubble. He knew that Brian was especially thankful that Mal had returned, judging by the look on his face when he had seen Mal walking along the beach. His face had dropped in relief before settling into a smile. And then, when they had met face to face, they’d passed a few half-formed thoughts between each other, not quite sure how to react, and George had left them to it, feeling like he’d been intruding on something extremely personal.
As the time passed everyone started getting louder and louder, alcohol boiling in their systems, producing ecstasy-induced cackles of laughter.
“You know Jessica,” Tucker announced, face flushed, “If I didn’t love dick so much, I’d consider having sex with you.”
“My dream come true,” she deadpanned, making everyone laugh hysterically. Frisby stared at Tucker with an unreadable expression.
“What? Have a problem with queers, old man?” Tucker asked, leering at him pointedly.
He held up his hands, “No comment. You do what you want.”
“You’re starting to make me regret bringing out the alcohol,” Jessica said, taking the bottle out of Tucker’s hands, “I could be using this to treat wounds. Instead it’s being used to make you into an even bigger idiot.”
“You flatter me,” Tucker smiled, “I love you.”
“Yep, I’m taking this away,” Jessica scooped up all the alcohol, “I think we’ve celebrated enough.”
“Hey!” John said, looking at her with a water bottle shoved onto his nose, “I wasn’t finished with that.”
She only stared and shook her head before walking away. Paul giggled and whacked the bottle off John’s nose.
It didn’t much matter to George, anyway. He’d already gotten properly and irreversibly drunk. Plus, Mal had retired to his hut twenty minutes ago, and there wasn’t really a point in continuing to celebrate with him gone, was there? Hm, maybe there was. He did like alcohol. He also liked Ringo.
Brian was the next to leave (looking queerer than usual, which always seemed to happen after he had a few drinks) and, after losing a verbal match with John, Tucker all but rolled to his hut, Frisby watching with dull amusement before he got up and left as well. George was lucky that Jessica hadn’t taken his cup of Scotch with her, so he enjoyed tilting his head back and letting the liquid slide down his throat. Then he laughed. He loved laughing. Ringo laughed too. George thought about pinning him to the ground. His dick liked that.
But then Ringo was gone. He didn’t know how, barely knew how much time had passed. He’d been talking to John about the possibility of Tidbits having kittens in Tucker’s mouth when he’d looked around and found that Ringo and Paul were gone. Then he looked back and John was gone.
“The fuck…” he slurred and rubbed his eyes. He felt like he’d just fallen asleep or something. Was there more to his cup than Scotch? He peered into it and slowly tipped it over, a few drops of alcohol dropping on the ground.
When he looked towards the forest, up at the tops of the trees, he saw something. It glowed bright and yellowish and he stared at it before he felt the urge to blink. Then it was gone. He swallowed and his eyes moved downwards, landing on Paul and Ringo chatting very suspiciously near the entrance of the forest.
He squinted. Uncrossing his legs, he stood up and walked towards them, finding that tiny marbles raced throughout his body whenever he walked.
“How could he not have seen it?” he heard Paul frantically whisper once he’d gotten close enough, “He’s been in there for ages and it’s not exactly small!”
“No, I don’t know…maybe he did see it?”
“Why didn’t he say?"
“Probably because he didn’t want to worry anyone,” Ringo responded, “It’s not exactly a comforting sight, Paul.”
“I suppose. We should ask him about it. Just you and me. It has to be us-no one else can know!”
“I already said I wouldn’t say anything…George!?”
He’d tripped on a branch and alerted the others to his presence. Very helpful, branches were.
Paul just stared at him, color rising in his cheeks. At least Ringo had the courtesy to help him up. Though he was wearing a very tight pair of pants, which made his already very limited rational thought go down the drain.
“How long were you listening?!” Paul asked, eyes hard.
“It’s not like I was spying or anything!” he said a bit too loudly, “I was just coming to talk to Ringo.”
“I thought you were with John.”
“I don’t know where he is. He just left.”
Paul continued to stare at him in a way that was both unsettling and boring. He really wanted to talk to Ringo.
“Right. Better find him, then,” Paul said, dismissing himself. Once he was a good distance away George grabbed Ringo by the front and practically dove at him, his lips landing somewhere around the area of his chin. Stumbling, Ringo laughed and awkwardly backed up into a tree, George falling on top of him.
He breathed deeply, listening to the thrums of Ringo’s heart, letting the wind push a sharp breeze into his face. “Sorry,” he muttered, “...erm, I think I’m drunk.”
“Just a little bit,” he responded. George straightened, his body fighting a very odd battle between arousal and embarrassment. He looked at the ground sharply, though-not because he was averting his eyes from Ringo, oh no, but simply because the ground that he could barely see was clearly more interesting. Yes.
He felt a tug at his sleeve, turned to see Ringo staring at him, “Let’s go back to the hut. My chin needs to calm down after all that excitement.”
George laughed loudly, heating rising to his face. Ringo stepped closer and grabbed the back of his neck before his lips were on his, properly. George sighed and kissed him back. It had been ages since the last time they’d done this and he was a bit frustrated that the buzz of the alcohol seemed to be numbing the sensation. He was still clutching at Ringo when he pulled away and George let his hands drop.
“So,” Ringo said, smile somehow as bright as the moon, “Mal’s back.”
George grinned.
“Mal’s back.”
Pairings: John/Paul, George/Ringo Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations
Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific. Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home. Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...
A/N: I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.
A/N2: I just thought, “It’s been awhile, why the hell not?”
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.
Previous Chapters
Chapter 33 - Day 52
When he’d pictured this day in his head, he’d thought about a confluence of whooping and smiling, consistent with any reunion, and that, with Mal in tow, he and his mates would have headed into Brian’s hut, talked secretively about what had happened during Mal’s absence, and ended the night with a couple rounds of nonexistent lager.
What he hadn’t considered, though, was just how much time they’d spent on the island. Just how much their little circle had welcomed the other survivors. So much so that, not even five minutes after Mal’s return, Frisby and Jessica had wasted no time in running up and hugging Mal, asking frantically if he was alright.
Now they were all seated around one of Frisby’s master fires, sharing food and talking amicably, Mal at the apex.
“Sure you don’t want anything more to eat?” Jessica asked, eyeing Mal’s empty plate.
He shrugged, “No, no thank you. I feel like I’ve eaten everything on the island already.”
“Looks like it too,” John smirked, his voice light and affectionate. George could still remember the look of relief on John’s face when he had seen Mal lumbering towards the hut, could still remember ‘Thank Jesus’ tumbling from his lips.
Mal just laughed and pushed his glasses up his nose, looking down at his folded hands. The time had to come, he was surprised that it hadn’t already, in which they’d have to talk about what had happened. So far they’d just hung around, eating and chatting about things that really didn’t matter too much. But he supposed that was just to ease everyone into it. Everyone but him, of course, because the averted topic was starting to put him on-edge. A few times he’d been tempted to just outright ask Mal what had happened in the forest, he had a tendency to blurt out such things, but he sat still and kept quiet.
Ringo was a great distraction. He’d put on a nice face, was whistling and banging his knee against his, making warmth sprint through his body. George remembered how pissed he’d been at Ringo merely a few hours ago. And he was glad that was over.
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting-had he really thought that Ringo was going to give him a fucking ring? Had he really thought that he was going to try … he didn’t even want the ring-they weren’t fucking birds! How had that thought even crossed his mind?
He looked back at the hut, wondering if Ringo was going to follow him, and was filled with relief when the curtain remained stationary. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation. He could fucking work through his anger on his own.
Besides, it wasn’t like there was anything to remedy. It was simple-they had made the mutual agreement-something nonspecific and flimsy-and now they were in the same place that they had been in at the beginning. A simple measure of misunderstanding-he wasn’t about to be a ponce about it and tell Ringo that he wanted them to be more… and what was wrong with just being mates anyway? It had worked for all those years-why was everything becoming fucked up now?
George hadn’t realized that he’d been pacing quickly and shuffling his hair into an unruly mess. Not until John and Paul had shown up, both in distinctly irritating moods.
“Ah Paul, look what we have here!” John announced, breaking him out of his thoughts and causing him to jump about a mile out of his skin.
“Could it be?” Paul responded, gazing at him curiously, “Could it be a member of the mythological Harrison species?”
“It is, it is. Look at how he stares with those sunken eyes! He’s trying to be intimidating. It seems we’ve stepped into his territory.”
“Corr…and the way he was pacing before-”
“Obviously some sort of mating ritual. I suspect he hasn’t had any for a very long time.”
“Now he’s rolling his eyes,” Paul said, dramatically grabbing John’s arm, “What do you reckon that means?”
“He’s probably about ready to attack. Quick, go and knock him out before he pounces!”
“Me?”
“Well I don’t want him scratching up my face, now do I?”
George snorted. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with their antics, “Piss off.”
“Oh come on George. What’s the matter? You can tell ol’ granny,” John was batting his eyes at him, speaking in that shrill voice, and creepily rubbing small circles on his arm.
George jerked away, “Nothing.”
John sighed loudly and turned to Paul, “And here we find ourselves, once again, in the presence of a moody George Harrison.”
“George, you alright?” Paul ignored John, thankfully.
“Yeah fine,” he snapped, “Just leave it alone.”
“Come on John, he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Paul shrugged. George nodded his thanks before planting himself in the sand and looking at the waves. He was rather bored of the view, actually. Had seen it so many fucking times-what was the point? Where was the beauty? The real beauty, he was starting to think, was back at the docks of Liverpool, where everything was fucking normal.
“Well what else are we gonna do all day?” John spat before sitting down next to George. He sighed and wrung his hands in frustration. He was starting to think that he’d never have any peace as long as John Lennon existed.
“Seriously John. Just leave it!”
“Does this have anything to do with Ringo?” he asked and George felt like his stomach had caved in. He threw an incredulous look at John before glancing at Paul, who seemed to be awkwardly viewing the conversation. He swore to fucking God, if John told Paul about him and Ringo-
“Ah, so it does, then,” John nodded. George wondered if he could choke him without Paul interfering.
“What?! It’s not about Ringo!”
“George,” John started, putting an arm around his shoulder, “Listen to me very carefully, son. We’re your mates. We’re your mates who fucking survived a plane crash! Don’t get pissed over stupid shite.”
He scoffed. Hypocritical words coming from John, considering that he was still holding that stupid grudge against Brian. Best not to mention that now, though.
“Yeah.” Oh God, Paul was getting in on this, sitting down on the other side of George and putting an arm around him as well, “We’ve all survived so, you know, you’ve just got to think about that. Whenever something happens, just think about that. We’re all lucky, you know.”
“Being angry all the time is no use for you, anyroad. You’re already starting to look like an old man.”
“Oh thanks,” he responded sarcastically, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You two are a couple of dolts, you know that?” he said, looking at each of them in turn. John smiled spastically.
“Oh but you love us!” he said, quite camp, “Give us a kiss!”
“No!” George screeched.
It was too late. John leaned forward and started licking the side of his face with his disgusting, prickly tongue, and Paul, John’s corrupted creation, was humming “Love Me Do” while hugging him tightly. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought that they were either high or had just had sex, but both were impossible. Unless they had something with Jessica that he didn’t know about.
To escape this, George first tried to shrink away from their queer embraces, hoping that he’d somehow cave in on himself and sink into the sand. But Paul’s arms were around him too tightly, so when that didn’t work, he flailed and wiggled around as spastically as he could until he was able to jump up and back away from them.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed, wiping John’s slobber off his face, listening as they laughed hysterically, “You two are a couple of fairies.”
“How could I resist after that mating ritual?” John deadpanned as he stood. Paul was still twitching and laughing on the ground. “Anyroad, you’re coming with us.”
“What? Where?” he blurted. They had just got through molesting him-they were barking if they thought he was going anywhere with them!
“Just over that way,” Paul pointed to a place behind his head, “There’s this tree…and there are loads of mangoes on it. But they’re too high up and John can’t reach-”
“Paul more like,” John inserted.
“-So we need your head to stand on.”
George snorted incredulously, “What?!”
“No, no it’s fine,” Paul said, standing up in swell of energy, “John’ll be on the bottom, you know, the support and such…and I’ll go next, and you can stand on my shoulders. Or, you know, wrap your legs around. That might be easier.”
“And no, we’re not talking about sex.”
George blinked. “As great as that description sounds,” he started, looking at them with a raised eyebrow, “I think I’ve got…other things to do.”
“Don’t be a ponce. We have to eat, don’t we?” John argued, “Don’t make us take Ringo. We’ll only end up failing and you know how tattered his self esteem already is.”
“And we gave you that great advice, remember?” Paul chirped, pointing a finger at him.
George was reeling, “Wait, so you lot licked my face because you needed me to help you reach a few mangoes?!”
“Oh there are more than a few, son. I don’t lick anyone’s face unless I approve of the payoff.”
Alright, George sighed, alright. Despite their annoying methods, they did have good intentions. And he supposed he wasn’t as angry over the Ringo situation as he had been before. Whether that was due to their somewhat amusing jokes, or the natural phenomenon of distraction, was irrelevant. Point was, they were involved, and the least he could do was help out the camp and procure a few more mangoes.
“Fine. Okay. I’ll help.”
“Ho!” John jumped, patting George on the back as the three of them started off towards the forest. They passed by their hut and George looked at it out of habit, knowing that Ringo was inside. He wondered what he was doing-shining his rings and thinking about clouds or something like that. Ringo didn’t appear to care about anything, to know anything. He bit the inside of his mouth and tried not to become angry again. He was starting to think that there was something seriously wrong with him. Perhaps the secluded island habitat was fucking with his brain.
“George,” John said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, speaking in hushed tones, “Just think of it this way-remember that time we were at the Cavern and Ringo and Mo were talking and Mo was upset because Rings told her that he forgot how they met?”
He frowned, “Yeah but what’s that got to do with anything?”
John smiled.
Maybe the drink was making everything funnier, but he was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. And he hardly knew why. But Ringo was improvising a truly terrible song and Tidbits’ ears were practically glued to the back of her head as she stared at him with bulging yellow eyes. George almost started choking on his fish.
Okay, so Ringo was a bit clueless but he couldn’t help it, could he? He wasn’t doing it malevolently. And, well, an hour ago Ringo had seemed willing to do… something. Maybe it would be a bit on and off-but that was better than not being mates, wasn’t it?
“So Mal,” John said, everyone going silent, “What happened?”
It was the question that had been hovering around for a long time, the question that people had been too nervous to ask. George silently rejoiced and snapped his eyes to Mal, everyone else following in his lead.
“Oh. Yeah, when did you lot get back?” Mal asked.
“Ages ago. Two weeks, I think,” Paul said.
“Yeah. Well. Brian and I didn’t know where you were so I said I’d go and see if I could find you,” he responded and George realized that this was the most that he had heard him speak since Neil’s death, “And yeah, that’s what I did. I looked. When I couldn’t find ya, I came back.”
“Did you see anything?” John asked, his eyes focused. Mal shifted.
“No, I mean, I didn’t see anything. Except for, you know, trees.”
“Did you stop by the waterfall?” Frisby asked, folding his hands over his lap.
“Oh…um… Yes. I needed water. It’s very beautiful.”
“It is. We missed you around here. Jessica’s taken up fishing.”
“I still can’t catch as many as you,” she said with a shrug. Mal smiled and nodded in her direction.
“Thank you.”
“Did you get hurt at all? Do you want me to check anything out?” she asked.
“No. I don’t think so. I might have a cut or two…”
George looked over at Ringo-he was about to make a joke about how, for once, Ringo wasn’t the one who needed all the medical attention, but froze when he saw a series of intense looks pass between him and Paul.
“Mal,” Paul asked, his voice casual, “So you didn’t see anything while you were in there?” Ah, George understood. Paul was probably thinking about Nicole.
Mal shook his head, “No. Sorry.”
“Well,” John chirped, “Good to have you back, mate!”
Agreement spread throughout and soon everyone had succumbed to light conversation, Mal and Brian in their own somewhat intense bubble. He knew that Brian was especially thankful that Mal had returned, judging by the look on his face when he had seen Mal walking along the beach. His face had dropped in relief before settling into a smile. And then, when they had met face to face, they’d passed a few half-formed thoughts between each other, not quite sure how to react, and George had left them to it, feeling like he’d been intruding on something extremely personal.
As the time passed everyone started getting louder and louder, alcohol boiling in their systems, producing ecstasy-induced cackles of laughter.
“You know Jessica,” Tucker announced, face flushed, “If I didn’t love dick so much, I’d consider having sex with you.”
“My dream come true,” she deadpanned, making everyone laugh hysterically. Frisby stared at Tucker with an unreadable expression.
“What? Have a problem with queers, old man?” Tucker asked, leering at him pointedly.
He held up his hands, “No comment. You do what you want.”
“You’re starting to make me regret bringing out the alcohol,” Jessica said, taking the bottle out of Tucker’s hands, “I could be using this to treat wounds. Instead it’s being used to make you into an even bigger idiot.”
“You flatter me,” Tucker smiled, “I love you.”
“Yep, I’m taking this away,” Jessica scooped up all the alcohol, “I think we’ve celebrated enough.”
“Hey!” John said, looking at her with a water bottle shoved onto his nose, “I wasn’t finished with that.”
She only stared and shook her head before walking away. Paul giggled and whacked the bottle off John’s nose.
It didn’t much matter to George, anyway. He’d already gotten properly and irreversibly drunk. Plus, Mal had retired to his hut twenty minutes ago, and there wasn’t really a point in continuing to celebrate with him gone, was there? Hm, maybe there was. He did like alcohol. He also liked Ringo.
Brian was the next to leave (looking queerer than usual, which always seemed to happen after he had a few drinks) and, after losing a verbal match with John, Tucker all but rolled to his hut, Frisby watching with dull amusement before he got up and left as well. George was lucky that Jessica hadn’t taken his cup of Scotch with her, so he enjoyed tilting his head back and letting the liquid slide down his throat. Then he laughed. He loved laughing. Ringo laughed too. George thought about pinning him to the ground. His dick liked that.
But then Ringo was gone. He didn’t know how, barely knew how much time had passed. He’d been talking to John about the possibility of Tidbits having kittens in Tucker’s mouth when he’d looked around and found that Ringo and Paul were gone. Then he looked back and John was gone.
“The fuck…” he slurred and rubbed his eyes. He felt like he’d just fallen asleep or something. Was there more to his cup than Scotch? He peered into it and slowly tipped it over, a few drops of alcohol dropping on the ground.
When he looked towards the forest, up at the tops of the trees, he saw something. It glowed bright and yellowish and he stared at it before he felt the urge to blink. Then it was gone. He swallowed and his eyes moved downwards, landing on Paul and Ringo chatting very suspiciously near the entrance of the forest.
He squinted. Uncrossing his legs, he stood up and walked towards them, finding that tiny marbles raced throughout his body whenever he walked.
“How could he not have seen it?” he heard Paul frantically whisper once he’d gotten close enough, “He’s been in there for ages and it’s not exactly small!”
“No, I don’t know…maybe he did see it?”
“Why didn’t he say?"
“Probably because he didn’t want to worry anyone,” Ringo responded, “It’s not exactly a comforting sight, Paul.”
“I suppose. We should ask him about it. Just you and me. It has to be us-no one else can know!”
“I already said I wouldn’t say anything…George!?”
He’d tripped on a branch and alerted the others to his presence. Very helpful, branches were.
Paul just stared at him, color rising in his cheeks. At least Ringo had the courtesy to help him up. Though he was wearing a very tight pair of pants, which made his already very limited rational thought go down the drain.
“How long were you listening?!” Paul asked, eyes hard.
“It’s not like I was spying or anything!” he said a bit too loudly, “I was just coming to talk to Ringo.”
“I thought you were with John.”
“I don’t know where he is. He just left.”
Paul continued to stare at him in a way that was both unsettling and boring. He really wanted to talk to Ringo.
“Right. Better find him, then,” Paul said, dismissing himself. Once he was a good distance away George grabbed Ringo by the front and practically dove at him, his lips landing somewhere around the area of his chin. Stumbling, Ringo laughed and awkwardly backed up into a tree, George falling on top of him.
He breathed deeply, listening to the thrums of Ringo’s heart, letting the wind push a sharp breeze into his face. “Sorry,” he muttered, “...erm, I think I’m drunk.”
“Just a little bit,” he responded. George straightened, his body fighting a very odd battle between arousal and embarrassment. He looked at the ground sharply, though-not because he was averting his eyes from Ringo, oh no, but simply because the ground that he could barely see was clearly more interesting. Yes.
He felt a tug at his sleeve, turned to see Ringo staring at him, “Let’s go back to the hut. My chin needs to calm down after all that excitement.”
George laughed loudly, heating rising to his face. Ringo stepped closer and grabbed the back of his neck before his lips were on his, properly. George sighed and kissed him back. It had been ages since the last time they’d done this and he was a bit frustrated that the buzz of the alcohol seemed to be numbing the sensation. He was still clutching at Ringo when he pulled away and George let his hands drop.
“So,” Ringo said, smile somehow as bright as the moon, “Mal’s back.”
George grinned.
“Mal’s back.”