Lucky Boys (1/?)
Title: Lucky Boys
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: (Eventual) George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Period: 1964, American Tour
Rating: PG-13, for now.
Warnings: Just a few naughty words in this chapter.
Summary: What do you get when you combine four hungover lads, one airplane, and one very big misunderstanding?
A/N: This is my first ever Beatles fic. Eeek. T'was inspired by Back In The USSR. This is just a bit of an intro chapter, but I hope you all like it!
“Where is everyone?
“What the hell is going on? Where are you?
“Lads? John? Anybody?
“What the hell? What are you doing?”
It was not, Ringo reflected groggily, very pleasant to wake up with someone shouting at you.
“How the hell are you lot still asleep? Get up!”
The singular unpleasantness of the experience was compounded by several facts: A, his tongue appeared to be glued to the roof of his mouth; B, whatever it was that he was lying on, it sure as hell wasn’t a bed; and C, someone was breathing on him. And, of course, the hysterical screaming in the background wasn’t helping matters much.
“Oh my god! Get up, get up, get up! Are you listening to me? John? George? Goddammit, someone answer me!”
Well, there was no help for it now. He wasn’t going back to sleep now, not under the present circumstances. Managing to force a muffled moan past his dry lips, he rolled over and opened his eyes.
Instantly, he went blind, his eyes overflowing with piercing white light that only abated slightly after he yowled and covered his face with his hands. Slowly, painfully, he peeled back finger after finger until his poor eyes were once again fully exposed. And, god, that light hurt. It bombarded him, sharp and cold and white as ice. God, why weren’t the curtains closed? And why was the sun so goddamn bright?
And then, as his vision slowly cleared, he realized that there were no curtains. In fact, there wasn’t even a window. There was only bright, white tile on all sides, stretching way, way up to the ceiling and down to cover the floor, the cold, squeaky floor that he was lying on now…
…because he’d spent the night in the bathroom.
Goddamn it.
“Ringo!”
He cringed as a shout rang out and a face swooped into his vision, big and round and far too close for comfort. Huge, dark eyes, a snub nose, and a bowed, pouting mouth swam into his vision, and he sighed heavily. Because, of course, no morning could be complete without Paul Mc-fucking-Cartney bellowing in your face.
“Morning, Paul,” he rasped, sitting halfway up and giving his eyes a vicious rubbing.
“Get up, Rings,” Paul ordered, grabbing at one of his hands in an attempt to pull him bodily from the floor. Naturally, Ringo resisted, snatching his hand away and dropping gently back to the floor.
“What time is it?” he asked thickly, fighting to move his tongue through his gooey, bitter-tasting mouth.
“What day is it?” Ringo turned his head slightly to see George lying beside him, one dark eye open and eyeing Paul distrustfully.
“What city is it?” another voice contributed from down near Ringo’s feet, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to see John, spread-eagled and squinting up at his agitated bandmate. And no wonder Ringo felt so heavy; he had John draped across his ankles and George slumped over against his side. It was quite a relief to learn that he hadn’t suddenly gained the weight of two more people during the night.
“We’ve got to go,” Paul said simply, and that was enough. At this point, they had been on tour so long that the words triggered an immediate reaction, no matter how tired or sick or hung over they were. It was ingrained; it was instinct. And it didn’t matter that each and every one of them wanted to impale Paul’s head with a pike and go back to sleep. They had to get up and go, so they got up and went.
As John extricated his legs from Ringo’s, George yawned, stretched, and sat up, pulling Ringo up with him. Paul seized John’s hand and dragged him to his feet, while George and Ringo helped each other up in a slightly more civilized manner, using each other for support as they struggled to their feet.
As Ringo stumbled out of that bloody bathroom, his foot collided with an unidentified glass bottle, sending it flying across the room and creating something of a domino effect as the multitude of bottles littering the floor fell over and shattered.
The racket sent shards of pain shooting through Ringo’s brain, and he and the other two cringed and covered their ears simultaneously.
“Christ, son,” John muttered, grimacing. “Me ‘ead’s softer than Paul’s bum. Could you possibly refrain from making noise for a few hours?”
Scandalized, Paul opened his mouth to reply, but George got there first, grinning lopsidedly as he said, “’Ey, now, leave our Rings alone. He can’t help himself; he’s a drummer.”
“That’s right,” Ringo agreed, sharing George’s mischievous grin. “Percussion follows me everywhere I go!”
Chuckling, they made their weaving way across the hotel room to the door where Paul was anxiously awaiting them, a suitcase in either hand.
“Put ‘em down, Macca,” John said dismissively, breezing past the bassist and out into the hallway. “What’s the point of having Brian and Mal if we’ve gotta carry our own bags?”
“Brian’s our manager, not our roadie,” Ringo pointed out reasonably as he and George followed John (not bothering to pick up any luggage, of course; John was right, in his usual Lennon-y way).
“So? He can still carry bags,” John shrugged, striding down the thickly carpeted hallway towards the elevator. “We’re the talent, ain’t we? Be a shame if we broke our talented little fingers luggin’ around bags, wouldn’t it now?”
“He’s a right tosser when he’s hung over, y’know,” George observed, raising his eyebrows and jerking his thumb at John.
“Yeah, show me someone who isn’t,” Ringo mumbled, running his fingers through his tangled mop of hair. “God, me ‘ead’s splittin’ open.”
“You’re not a tosser, Ringo,” George told him earnestly as they stopped in front of the elevator. “You’re never a tosser.” Surprised, Ringo turned to look at the guitarist. His younger bandmate’s eyes were widened slightly; just enough to remind Ringo of the solitary, pudgy-faced eighteen-year-old he’d first met in Hamburg. Ringo laughed, the nervous, caught-off-guard guffaw that he often, embarrassingly spouted.
He was saved by the sudden reappearance of Paul, who shoved a surprised George aside and yanked open the door to the stairs.
“Come on, lads!” he called over his shoulder, leaping down the steps two at a time. As he turned onto the next flight and vanished from sight, the elevator doors opened with a cheerful, welcoming ding. Ringo, George, and John exchanged looks, shut the stairwell door, and took the elevator.