Lucky Boys (15/?)
Title: Lucky Boys
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Frame: 1964, American Tour
Rating: Still PG-13.
Warnings: Potty mouths, boy-smooches, and awkward situations.
Summary: What do you get when you combine four hungover lads, one airplane, and one very big misunderstanding?
A/N: Well, damn. There I was promising to update faster, but it took me a whole month to get this next past done. It is, however, a pretty damn good chapter if I do say so myself. Hope you all are still reading and enjoy this one.
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! 4-13 can be found back at my journal.
In spite of everything, Ringo’s survival instinct finally kicked in. After what felt like years he moved, diving to the floor and worming his way into the close darkness of his hiding spot. To his shock, someone else did the same, and he found himself pressed to the cold stone floor with a warm, bony body on top of him. Cursing under his breath, he rolled the intruder off him and looked up into a pair of wide, frightened eyes that he knew all too well.
“George!” he hissed, heart slamming hectically against the back of his throat. “The hell’re you doing?”
“Sorry,” George gasped, his reddening cheeks visible even in the dusky darkness. “I couldn’t think of anything else!”
“Shit,” Ringo muttered, inching further into the little cave in the hay. “Come on, then.”
It was, unsurprisingly, extremely cramped; Ringo ended up curling into the tiniest ball possible, George folded close around him like a sleeping cat. A gap in the boards just overhead allowed the faintest gray light to dust everything like new snow. Fortunately, the wind had failed to poke its icy fingers in through the gaps and knotholes in the old wood. The little space was surprisingly warm, the hay insulating the glowing heat of the two terrified bodies until even Ringo’s icy, damp clothes were bearable.
Over the thunder of George’s heartbeat beside his ear, Ringo listened intently to the footsteps outside as they approached, drew away, and then drew near again. There were more voices, more words in Russian, their unfamiliar rhythms growing louder and louder until they seemed to be right outside the front door.
And then, there came the squeaking and rattling of boards, followed by the sudden report of booted feet on the stone floor. Ringo distinctly felt his heart ricochet off his ribcage as it fell towards his stomach; he buried his face in George’s soggy shirt to muffle the faint gasp of terror that escaped his throat.
More boots joined the first pair, and more orders were barked out in Russian. The footsteps dispersed, and the muscles in Ringo’s shoulders tensed as he heard the first of a series of loud clanks and rustles. These intruders, whoever they were, were searching the barn.
Well, this was it, Ringo thought, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his grip on the thin, damp material of George’s shirt. Those Russians were sure to find them, and, more likely than not, murder them where they lay. Who else but the mafia would be searching an abandoned barn in the middle of a rain storm?
All in all, he’d lived a pretty good life, Ringo decided. A bit short, that was true, but his few years on earth had been packed with some pretty mind-blowing experiences. He’d gotten the rarest of chances to do what he truly loved: play music. Not only that, but he’d managed to succeed at it-to sell thousands of records, travel the world, and play to hundreds of adoring fans. It had been an incredible, mad journey, and he’d shared it with three of the best mates anyone could ask for. Quite honestly, he’d fulfilled far more than his share of dreams. He could die quite happily knowing that.
There was just one thing bothering him, one desire left unfulfilled. Why hadn’t he done it before? he wondered. Well, there had always been consequences to worry about before, hadn’t there? Now, he was mere minutes away from death. What consequence could be worse than that? There was no way that he was going to die without doing this.
Taking a deep breath, he drew his face away from George’s chest and did his best to inch, wriggle, and (silently) move himself upwards until he was just about eye-to-eye with the guitarist. In the dim light, George’s eyes shone wide, dark, and confused as he watched Ringo closely.
Well, shit, Ringo thought, his heart bouncing back and forth between his ribs like a pinball in a machine. It was all very well to decide things with his face safely hidden away in George’s shirt; being face to face with him was another thing entirely. How was he supposed to go through with this? What if he ruined everything?
But he couldn’t. No matter what happened, nothing could be worse than this, than dying without ever knowing. His heart ceased its mad ricocheting and settled back into its proper place.
No consequences, he thought, and leaned in and kissed George.
In some far, distant corner of his brain, Ringo was vaguely surprised that nothing cataclysmic happened. The barn roof did not collapse; the haystack around them did not burst into flames. The earth did not tip off its axis and go tumbling towards the sun. In short, the world did not end.
In fact, nothing really happened at all. Everything seemed sort of frozen; George stayed very, very still, his lips resting gently against Ringo’s. Not pushing forward, but not pulling back, either. Finally, Ringo pulled away, breathing a bit more heavily than before. There. That was done. Now he could die happy.
He had not, however, anticipated what came next: George’s hands, moving quietly but surely, found his face, cupping his flushed cheeks and drawing his mouth back towards George’s. Their eyes met, and for a moment Ringo thought he was being consumed, tipping forwards and falling headlong into the ether-blackness of George’s eyes. And then he saw the smile, faint and tremulous, that had found its way onto George’s mouth, and he felt his own lips curl to match it.
And then they were kissing again, George’s lips sudden and hot against his own, and he found himself somewhat dumbfounded because holy hell, this was actually happening. It was very different, kissing another bloke. George tasted like rainwater, colored with the faintest hints of whiskey and cigarettes. As Ringo turned his head slightly, the stubble on George’s unshaven chin scraped against his jaw. And that, well, that was slightly jarring to someone who’d only ever kissed girls before, but Ringo couldn’t exactly say that it was unpleasant. In fact…he turned his head back the other way, just to test it out again. The sandpaper roughness against his skin sent shivers down his back, reminding him forcefully that this was not some bird he was kissing-this was George. Because, to be honest, kissing was kissing, and there was nothing different about the slide and lock of lips and the rush of hot breath in between. There was, however, something new in running his fingers through short, coarse hair, in the sharp press of bony hipbones against his own, in calloused fingers pressing into his cheeks and gentle thumbs rubbing slow circles into his jaw.
And then there was George’s tongue against his lower lip and then sliding across his own tongue, and Ringo couldn’t stifle a tiny gasp because this was fucking incredible. George was kissing him like he’d never kissed or been kissed before-fast and fierce like these were their last moments together, like they were dying, because-oh, right. They were dying, or were probably about to. And yet, somehow, Ringo couldn’t summon the will to care about that, or to listen for footsteps approaching their hiding place. If he had to go, it was best to go like this: on the highest of high notes, in the arms of the boy he loved, finally resolving months and years of desire.
It was many minutes later when Ringo realized that he was not, in fact, dead.
It seemed silly, but Ringo was suddenly struck by the realization that in the good ten or fifteen minutes that they had been kissing, the Russians had not found them. As he and George paused to breathe, he listened closely to the sounds outside the haystack. The frantic footsteps had ceased, the shouting lowered to a quiet murmur of voices. They were all sitting or standing in one place, it seemed, no longer searching the barn. Most importantly, there was no yelling or commotion; they hadn’t found John and Paul. In fact, they didn’t even seem to be looking. They were just waiting around, most likely using the shelter of the barn to wait out the storm outside.
Well, Ringo thought, two could play at that game. It was now merely a matter of waiting for the Russians to leave. How difficult could it be?
Except, of course, for the fact that none of them could speak, move, or do anything that made even the tiniest noise. The waiting game had just gotten considerably more difficult.
But Ringo was sure they could manage it. He had a relatively warm, comfortable hiding place, not to mention a newly kissable George right beside him. Though, things couldn’t exactly progress; they couldn’t risk doing anything that might elicit any inadvertent moans or movements.
Ah well. They were used to waiting; for shows to start, for planes to take off, for planes to land, for cars to leave and arrive and all the other things they had to wait for on a daily basis. It might not have exactly made them patient, but at least they could handle it.
With the slightest of movements, George tucked a stray piece of hair behind Ringo’s ear, bringing all his attention squarely back to the tiny world of warmth that the two of them occupied. Catching his eye, George raised his eyebrows quizzically, nodding gently towards the source of the voices.
Ringo shrugged, meeting George’s eyes and conveying his unspoken message: I don’t know what they’re up to, but at least they’re not looking for us.
George nodded faintly, then sighed, shutting his eyes for just a bit longer than a standard blink. We’re going to be waiting for a very long time.
Offering a sympathetic smile, Ringo reached up and gently stroked the hair just above George’s temple. I know, but at least we’re waiting together.
George smiled, smoothing out the anxiety in his brow. He caught Ringo’s chin in one strong, dry hand and brought their lips together, cradling Ringo’s jaw with the utmost care as he kissed him long and warm and slow. And, well, that message needed no translation.
It turned out that Ringo had been wrong about one thing: this was not the kind of waiting that they were used to. They were used to waiting for something specific-an arrival or a departure, a certain, concrete thing that they could expect. Now, what were they waiting for? They had no idea. Maybe the Russians would leave; maybe they would search the barn again and discover them all. Who knew?
The other difference, of course, was that normally they had watches and clocks, swiveling hands and ticking gears that chopped time up into little uniform parcels that could be measured and counted like so many grains of salt. Now they had nothing, nothing to tell them how much time had passed or if, in fact, it was passing at all. Ringo honestly could not tell. He had no idea if they’d been there for three days, three hours, or three minutes. Only the very gradual dimming of the gray light outside could reassure him that time hadn’t stopped altogether.
Face pressed back against George’s chest, he heaved a very small, very quiet sigh. In response, one of George’s hands moved from his back to his head, where the long fingers ran themselves gently through his hair. A shiver slid down his spine, and he tightened his grip on George’s waist, pressing his smile into George’s shirt. It was crazy, but for the first time in the past few days, he felt truly safe. Yes, there was nothing but a few feet of hay between him and mad Russian mobsters with guns, but for the first time he felt safe in his head, safe with what he felt and what he wanted and who he wanted. There was no confusion or denial anymore, and that…that felt brilliant.
The incredible frustration, of course, was that now that he was finally allowing himself to feel all of these things, he couldn’t actually act on them. Because, oh god, there were so many things he wanted to do with George, to do to George, so many fascinating new things to try and explore. But he couldn’t think about any of that now, couldn’t risk doing anything stupid that would get them both killed. He could wait. If proper alone time with George was to be his reward, then oh, yes, he could wait.
He swallowed hard. When had it gotten so hot in here? His damp shirt was clinging to his boiling skin, stifling him worse than the summer sun had just hours before. The heat was intolerable. Silence be damned; he had to get this thing off him, no matter what.
Unlocking his arms from around George’s waist, he reached up and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Fingers fumbling, he struggled with the second, finally managing to force the tiny circle of plastic through its hole. As he moved on to the third, he felt George draw in a surprised breath and looked up to see the dark eyes staring at him in total horror. When Ringo finished with the buttons and started to wriggle his arms out of the sleeves, George’s hands landed suddenly on his shoulders, his eyes widened in an expression akin to terror. What the hell are you doing?
Ringo pressed one finger to his own lips, looking up at George reassuringly. Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet.
As Ringo continued to gradually shimmy the heavy garment off his shoulders, George shook his head, his horrified expression not leaving his face. Ringo wasn’t entirely sure why the removal of his shirt had caused such a violent reaction, but he supposed he couldn’t entirely blame George for being nervous. After all, a single wrong move could put both their lives in jeopardy. But Ringo was exceedingly careful, and he managed to slide his shirt off without even the slightest of sounds.
Balling up the damp material and stowing it beside him, Ringo smiled up at George, a mite triumphant. See? Nothing to worry about.
But George’s concerned expression did not subside; if anything, the creases between his eyebrows deepened. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing at it anxiously.
Confused, Ringo frowned at him, cocking his head to one side. What’s wrong?
George’s gaze slid away, unwilling to meet Ringo’s curious eyes. Dark brows nearly obscuring his eyes, he shook his head. Nothing.
Frown deepening, Ringo pointed to himself, head still cocked in confusion. Look, I managed it without a sound. What’s your problem?
George shook his head, but there was nothing in his expression that Ringo could translate. Well, he was on edge; they both were. He could hardly blame George for that.
Instead, he reached up, cupped George’s chin in his hands, and kissed him, kissed him so gently and delicately that it was more of a shared breath than anything else. That is, until George deepened it, pushing forwards and fully capturing Ringo’s lips within his. And oh, god, how happy Ringo was that this was happening.
When they finally pulled away, Ringo found himself breathing quite a bit more heavily than he really should have; it was all he could do to keep himself from gasping for breath. He could feel George’s chest heaving against his own, and looked on with a twinge of amusement as the guitarist’s head dropped back slightly, mouth agape as he fought silently for air. Somehow, his eyes seemed darker, as if the pupils had widened and spread like identical drops of ink in a glass of water.
But when George looked down and saw Ringo watching him, a sort of screen opened up in his eyes, shutting away that beautiful, intimate darkness. George broke their eye contact, his gaze shifting down and sideways and away from Ringo’s eyes and towards his stomach.
And that was when, somewhere in the back of his mind, Ringo got an inkling of what exactly it was that was distressing George so. He decided to keep the thought just where it was for the moment; it would bear inspection and experimentation later, of course, but now was simply not the time. For now, he slid down and wrapped his arms back around George’s waist, resuming his comfortable position with his face buried in George’s chest. The bony body stiffened against him for a moment or two, but he soon felt George relax. Finally, one calloused hand came to rest on Ringo’s head, long fingers stroking his hair, while the other hand rested comfortably on his ribcage. Once again, everything was safe.