Lucky Boys (12/?)

[skelly_lector]

Title: Lucky Boys

Author: skelly_lector

Pairing: George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Frame: 1964, American Tour

Rating: Still PG-13.

Warnings: Potty mouths, moderate boy-lovin, and awkward situations.
Summary: What do you get when you combine four hungover lads, one airplane, and one very big misunderstanding?
A/N: Tralala, new chapter! The boys get on their way. This one took a bit longer because a, I was diverted by Ringo's birthday fic, and b, my computer has decided that it will only occasionally type m, c, v, x, colons, apostrophes, and quotations marks. It is most inconvenient. Anyway, this will likely be the last chapter for a while, as I'm going to be internet-less for around three weeks. But have no fear, I shall return with more in August!
Disclaimer: I totally know this is true because I was totally there to watch it nearly three decades before I was conceived. Totally.
First chapter is here! Second is here! Third is here! 4-11 can be found back at my journal.


The morning dawned bright and clear, brilliant sunlight erupting out from between the trees and flooding the small patch of grass behind the farmhouse. Ringo knew this because he awoke to fingers of light stabbing insistently at his eyeballs until he was sure he could feel his corneas sizzling.

Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes, squinting to protect his tender pupils from the unrelenting orange light. The sun was well above the horizon, and a sudden terror leapt up into his gut; they had to get going.

And yet, he couldn’t quite persuade himself to throw off his blankets and jump to his feet. For one thing, he was comfortably warm at the moment, and the chilly morning air promised a harsh shock should he choose to expose himself to it. For another, just as he’d predicted last night, he had a mad tentacle monster squeezing the life out of him. More specifically, he had George hugging him tight, both arms wrapped around him like he was the last thing anchoring him to the earth.

Ringo’s own hand, he realized, was closed around George’s, his fingers laced between the guitarist’s long, calloused ones. Hastily, he untangled himself, letting his hand drop back to his side. George let out a groan of sleeping protest, wiggled his abandoned fingers searchingly, and nuzzled his face deeper into the back of Ringo’s neck, his hot, dry lips brushing against the nape and making Ringo shiver slightly.

Sighing quietly in defeat, Ringo gave up on rousing himself for the moment and glanced across the blanket expanse towards John and Paul. He jumped and actually bit his tongue when he saw John looking back at him, a devious grin plastered across his face.

“Cozy,” John remarked cheerfully, lifting himself up on his elbows and nodding at Ringo’s present predicament. “I’d hate to be the one wake him.”

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Ringo muttered, wincing at his throbbing tongue as John sat up Indian-style and looked down at the sleeping Paul beside him. And maybe Ringo was tired as hell, and maybe he wasn’t seeing straight, but he could swear that John’s sharp face softened, a gentle smile of genuine affection replacing his maniacal grin.

John looked away and saw Ringo gawping at him, and then John, shameless John, turned faintly red about the face. John I-don’t-give-a-shit, love-is-a-lie, romance-is-for-idiots, I-don’t-care-let-them-hear-us Lennon was blushing.

“Well?” he demanded, glaring at Ringo as if daring him to even try and laugh.

“You…you two,” Ringo managed stupidly, completely nonplussed by this strange turn of events. Sure, he’d seen John and Paul last night, but this was different. This made it all seem…serious. “You and Paul?”

“Yeah,” John said quietly, glancing briefly back at his mate’s, his…his lover’s sleeping, sunlit face. “Me and Paul.” He looked back at Ringo’s face and laughed a weak, faltering laugh that was entirely un-John-like. “That hard to feature, huh?”

“Kind of,” Ringo admitted. And, strangest of all, John actually looked crestfallen, like Ringo had said the wrong thing. “I mean,” he added hastily, “I always sort of…I always wondered…I don’t know. I guess it’s not that surprising.”

John pursed his lips, looked down at his hands in his lap, and then frowned back up at Ringo. “Pity,” he shrugged. “I’d sort of hoped it’d be shocking.”

Ringo actually laughed at that. “You and Paul? Shocking? A bit hard to understand, yeah. Shocking, no.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” John sighed, and suddenly his dawn-lit face looked very young, very tired, and very confused. “I don’t understand it meself most times.”

“Does anyone?” Ringo mused, and without meaning to he looked down at George’s hand curled around his hipbone.

“I suppose not,” John agreed, and something in his voice made Ringo look back up. The guitarist was watching Ringo and George closely, a thoughtful expression in his narrow, dark eyes. “You and Geo, then?”

Ringo blinked back at him. “What about me and Geo?”

“Did you…?”

“Did we what?”

At Ringo’s perplexed expression, John rolled his eyes and scoffed. “You know what I mean, Ritch. Did you and George-”

“Oh, no,” Ringo broke in quickly, feeling his cheeks heat up. “No, we didn’t. I don’t…I don’t know…”

“What, you don’t know if he’s interested in you that way?” John supplied scathingly. “You don’t know if he likes you or if he like likes you?” He rolled his eyes again. “Please. The kid’s had hearts in his eyes for you since day one.”

“In Hamburg it was you,” Ringo protested, and he was surprised at the sudden stab of jealousy he felt at the recollection of George trailing John like a lovesick puppy.

“Eh.” John waved his hand like Ringo’s comment was annoying gnat he intended to swat away. “That didn’t last long, believe you me. Once you showed up, I was out of the picture like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate, then paused, suddenly thoughtful again.

“Though,” he amended, “It’s gotten worse lately. Yesterday was just pathetic. I do hate seeing him all obvious and unrequited like that.” He shot Ringo an accusatory look, like somehow this was all Ringo’s doing, like he’d asked for George to be in love with him.

“It’s funny what stress does to a person, I suppose,” John observed lazily, tossing his head back and stretching before straightening back up to fix Ringo with a meaningful stare. “If I were you, I’d take advantage of it.”

He got to his feet, straightening his shirt and brushing down his pants before looking back at Ringo yet again.

“A word of advice,” he said seriously. “The fights are tedious as hell, but the sex afterwards? Great.”

With that, he leaned down and gave Paul’s butt a resounding slap. The bassist awoke with a start and an outraged yelp, rolling over and sitting up to glare at John.

“Asshole,” he muttered, extending a demanding hand towards John’s smirking face. “Help me up, you wanker.”

“As your majesty wishes.” John bowed theatrically, took hold of Paul’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. Grumbling to himself under his breath, Paul stumbled off towards the back door and turned on the tap. As he gulped water and washed his face, John ambled over and crouched down beside Ringo.

“Oh, and one word about this,” he said in a calm, quiet voice that only Ringo could hear, “And I’ll hang you by your toes and string you up like a hog. Understood?”

“Understood,” Ringo mumbled, somewhat unnerved by John’s cheerful tone.

“Good.” John straightened up and took a deep breath. “I’m glad we got that cleared up. Good luck with him, by the way,” he added, jerking his thumb at George’s motionless form.

“Thanks,” Ringo sighed as John wandered off towards Paul. “I’ll need it.”

Now, George’s bemused voice echoed inside Ringo’s head, How shall we do this?

“Geo,” Ringo said quietly, giving the guitarist’s sharp shoulder a gentle nudge. “George. George, wake up.”

“Not gonna work,” Paul informed him helpfully as he strolled over and sat down on the ground beside Ringo. “I’d work on…y’know…untangling him first. He tends to come round pretty quickly after that.”

“Alright,” Ringo grunted, pausing to formulate a battle plan. Hands first, he decided. Where are his hands?

The first was resting gently against Ringo’s chest, dangling loosely from the arm slung over his side. That was the hand he’d been holding…but he firmly pushed that thought aside. Freeing himself from the sleeping tentacle monster was like disarming a bomb; he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

That first hand was easy enough; all he had to do was lift it and place it carefully against George’s side. Everything went according to plan, as George’s limbs were limp and pliant as spaghetti.

But the second hand would prove to be a challenge. It rested casually on Ringo’s hipbone, the fingers curled ever so slightly in a gesture that was almost possessive. Most annoyingly, it was attached to an arm that was wrapped around Ringo from underneath. How had he done that? Could he still have any feeling left in his arm?

Evidently he did; when Ringo attempted to remove the possessive hand from his hip, George’s arm tightened in protest, firmly replacing the hand and jerking Ringo backwards until he was tightly pinned against the guitarist. Who, Ringo observed in exasperation, was still fast asleep.

“Well, would you look at that?” Paul chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling in amusement. “I’ve never seen him do that before. That is a whole new level of tentacle-monster-dom.”

“Lucky me,” Ringo muttered, shoving ineffectually at the skinny forearm pressed firmly across his stomach.

Paul rested his chin on his hand, regarding the two of them thoughtfully. He lifted a finger and opened his mouth, and Ringo steeled himself for the question he knew was coming.

“Are you and George…?”

“No,” Ringo said flatly, attempting with all his might to peel George’s fingers off his hip.

“You should,” Paul advised him, getting to his feet and nodding sagely. “You should.” With that, he meandered back to John and the water spout.

Shaking his head in exasperation, Ringo redoubled his efforts, but to no avail. For every finger he pulled back, the one beside it clamped back down. I’m going to have bruises on me hip after this, he thought, and then immediately tried to forget that thought. It was far too blatantly sexual to be allowed even a single brain cell.

And then, as he frowned and fought with George’s stubborn fingers, George’s other arm rose up like a water serpent surfacing from the depths of the ocean and flopped heavily back on top of Ringo, pinning his arms to his sides. All of Ringo’s efforts were for naught; he was trapped.

“Lads,” he called, his voice heavy with defeat. “John? Paul? A little help here?”

“Well, well, well,” John chuckled as the two of them walked over grinning nearly identical grins. “It appears that Ringo’s been ensnared by an octopus.”

“Dangerous things, octopuses,” Paul contributed, contriving to look solemn and professorial. “They grab you and drag you down their gardens at the bottom of the ocean and kiss you until you die.”

“Don’t worry, Ringo,” John said consolingly. “All things considered, an octopus’s sex slave isn’t such a bad way to die.”

“Oh, do stop,” Ringo said in a monotone dripping with sarcasm. “Please cease your hilarious jokes, or I may die of laughter.”

“Oh, it’s a laugh a line with Lennon!” John grinned.

“Just help me wake him up,” Ringo sighed.

“Very well,” Paul huffed. “Go on and spoil all our fun, why don’t you.”

“Now now, Paulie,” John chided him. “We’ve got to help out our comrade in need.” He leaned down over George and shrilled, “Geoooorge! Georgie boy! Rise and shiiiine!”

“Geooorge!” Paul sang operatically, leaping over to John’s side, clasping his hands, and trilling, “Geoooooorgie poooorgie, it is time for you to awaaaken! Open your eyes and say helloooooo to this lovely moooooorning!”

There was a pause. George shifted slightly, mumbled something unintelligible, and nestled his face into the space between Ringo’s shoulder blades. A shudder tumbled down Ringo’s back as he felt George’s hot breath against his spine.

“God damn,” John remarked in awe. “Sleeps like the dead, don’t he?”

“He’s a stubborn little bugger,” Paul agreed.

“George,” Ringo murmured, pled, really. “Come on, George. Wake up. We gotta get up, Geo.” He jostled the sleeping boy gently, straining at the thin arms holding him in their iron grasp. Unsurprisingly, those arms closed even more tightly around him, the hot face pressing even closer into his back.

What was surprising was the soft, sleepy voice that spoke into Ringo’s skin: “Mm, no. Don’ go. Don’ leave me. Love you. Don’ wanna go.”

At that, Ringo froze. John and Paul froze too, their smug grins wiped off their faces by expressions of pure shock.

“Is he…” Ringo began in a very, very small voice, “Tell me he’s still asleep.”

“He’s still asleep,” Paul affirmed, peering closely at George’s face.

“Alright,” John said, almost to himself, as he crouched down beside the sleeping guitarist. And then, without warning, he grabbed George’s shoulder and shook it wildly, all the while shrieking: “George! Get up, George! We’ve got to go, George! The Nazis are coming! The Nazis are coming for Ringo! They’re going to take him away to a concentration camp and gas him! Get up, George, get up! We’ve got to hide Ringo!”

Whether it was the sudden physical abuse, the hysterical John voice right in his ear, or some combination of the two that did it, Ringo didn’t know. What he did know was that George practically levitated, releasing his death grip on Ringo and scrambling to his feet, a wild look in his bleary eyes as he stared at John.

“What, what?” he gasped, confused eyes flickering from John’s satisfied smirk to Paul’s barely restrained laughter to Ringo’s body sprawled haphazardly on the ground by his feet. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing,” John said airily, turning away and bouncing away towards the back door. “It’s time for breakfast.”

While Paul followed John, George looked back down at Ringo, pure bemusement on his poor, sleepy face. Shrugging, Ringo got to his feet and attempted to look sympathetic.

“What’s…what…why…” George stammered brokenly, staring confoundedly at John and Paul’s retreating backs.

“Who knows?” Ringo sighed, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder and steering him towards the house. “Let’s see if there’s any food.”

The sun, now further along its arc into the sky, shone steadily down on the four as they stood in the dusty, trampled yard in front of the farmhouse. Standing beside them was Vladimir, accompanied by a rather bashful Anastasia. Behind them, the children crowded out of the house and perched on the front steps to peer at the foreigners.

“Thank you so much, mein freund,” Paul said fervently, shaking Vladimir’s hand. “You vere incredibly kind to us. As vas your lovely wife,” he added, flashing the plump woman his trademark lady-killer smile.

Anastasia blushed and blurted something out in rapid Russian, which Vladimir translated as, “She is…sorry zat we could not…give you more food.”

“Oh, no, this is plenty,” Paul said hastily, indicating the napkin-wrapped bread and cheese that he carried. They’d gotten one small loaf apiece, for which they were, in fact, incredibly grateful. “You haff really been too kind.”

“We are…always happy to…assist our comrades,” Vladimir said haltingly, smiling through his bushy hair. “Have a safe journey to Moscow.”

“Danke,” Paul said, bowing slightly. The other three copied him in the eerie tandem they’d learned so well for their shows. And maybe that wasn’t the greatest idea, but these people clearly had no idea who they were, so it was safe enough.

Smiling and waving at the Russians, the four of them turned to head on down the dusty road, but a minor commotion amongst the children stopped them. As they turned back to look, the children in the front of the pack were shoved aside by a tiny girl in a very big hurry.

“Sophia!” Anastasia exclaimed in exasperation, but the little girl ignored her and made a beeline for Ringo. Looking him square in the eye, Sophia lifted her hand and offered him the battered pink flower she held in her sticky little fingers.

“Ooh,” Ringo said appreciatively, taking the flower and admiring its bruised petals with theatrically wide eyes. “Uh, danke,” he added with a smile. As she looked on solemnly, he took the flower and placed it carefully in his buttonhole. But when he lowered his hands to show her, she scowled and shook her head.

“Nyet!” she crowed, making grabby hands for the flower. “Nyet!”

“Nyet?” Ringo repeated, smiling as he squatted down and let her remove the tiny blossom. His grin widened when, with the air of a painter putting the finishing touch on his masterpiece, she delicately placed the flower in his hair.

“Aah,” he nodded understandingly. “Danke, danke.”

She smiled shyly down at her feet as he straightened up. And suddenly, he felt guilty; he didn’t have anything to give her in return, did he? Yet he felt the need to repay this little girl in some way, like it would repay this whole family for their generosity. They’d been insanely kind, giving them food and a place to sleep and everything. And now this? He’d be a right tosser if he walked off without giving her something in return.

And then he had an idea. He leaned back down to Sophia’s level, pulled a ring off his pinky, and held it out to her. It sat in the center his palm, a thin silver band set with a dark blue stone. Dark eyes widening, she regarded it in awe but didn’t move to take it, despite his obvious offering.

Finally, he decided to be direct about it and very gently took her hand. Eyes round as saucers, she watched as he gently slid the ring onto her index finger. It had fit snugly around his pinky; on her tiny finger, it hung loose. But that didn’t seem to bother her; she was positively glowing with joy as she inspected her present.

“Sophia,” her mother called, this time in a tone that was not to be reckoned with. Sophia started to go, then thought better of it and turned back to Ringo. Flushing a brilliant pink, she leaned up and gave Ringo a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek before turning and darting off towards the house.

“Sophia!” Anastasia yelped, dashing off after her daughter. As she rattled off a rapid burst of angry Russian, Vladimir shrugged and smiled.

“You…shouldn’t have,” Vladimir chuckled as Ringo stood up, a hand pressed to the wet spot on his cheek. It was Ringo’s turn to shrug and smile awkwardly as he rejoined his bandmates. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sophia skipping around the house to the backyard, shrieking in delight as her mother pursued her.

“Vell, gut bye!” Paul called cheerily, tossing off a quick wave to Vladimir before starting briskly off down the road. The other three followed suit and fell into step beside Paul. In a matter of minutes, the farm house was out of their sight behind the forest.

The moment they were out of earshot of Vladimir’s family, the four burst into laughter, starting with John’s uproarious cackle and ending with Ringo’s sheepish chuckle.

“Ringo’s got a giiiirlfriend!” John hooted, capering across the road and giving Ringo a generous slap on the back. “Well done, mate!”

“The ring was a very nice touch,” Paul smirked. “You’re a right charmer, you are.”

“Well, y’know, I had to give her something,” Ringo shrugged, cocking his head to one side to indicate his new hair accessory.

“It’s a lovely flower,” George nodded, grinning crookedly. “Looks very fetching in your hair like that.”

“Why, thank you,” Ringo chuckled, fluttering his eyelashes becomingly.

“Ringo’s a pretty princess!” John chirped, cackling to himself as he skipped on ahead down the road. Paul followed him, and the two of them cavorted madly about, laughing their fool heads off. Faintly baffled, Ringo watched them thoughtfully and tried to wrap his mind around the idea of…them, them together, them being...in love? Were they in love? John hadn’t said, but it certainly seemed that way…

He was jerked out of his reverie when he realized that John had turned around and was staring directly at him, a dangerous look on his face. He caught Ringo’s eye and drew a line across his neck with one finger, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Quickly, Ringo looked away.

“Right, then,” he muttered to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”