Lucky Boys (3/?)
Title: Lucky Boys
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: (Eventual) George/Ringo and John/Paul
Time Frame: 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: So I guess this is a bit of a filler chapter, and I'm sorry about that. But at least it's cute filler? Hopefully. I have way too much fun with these guys.
First chapter is here! Second is here!
Hour One.
Their situation, Ringo soon discovered, was not quite as gear as it had first appeared. For starters, the plane was absolutely tiny, designed to seat only eight plus the pilot. But the back row of seats had been completely covered in junk; they were piled high with crates, cardboard boxes, piles of clothes, and god knew what else. This left only the front four seats open. Ringo and George sat on one side of the aisle, while John and Paul were squeezed together on the other side. And that probably wasn’t the greatest of ideas, but neither Ringo nor George wanted to deal with those two when they were in a bickering mood.
After they all got themselves strapped in, there was the utter terror of takeoff. As they had started to roll down the runway, all seemed well. But the moment the wheels left the ground, the plane began to creak and rattle like it was being torn apart at the seams. Not to mention the fact that the tiny craft dipped and lurched over every wind current it came across.
Ringo spent the first five or ten minutes of the flight sitting rigidly in his seat, staring straight ahead and gripping the armrest so tightly that he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Image after grisly image fluttered across his mind’s eye until his head was so tightly crammed with worst-case scenarios that he could only manage to squeeze out one thought: ohgodohgodohgodpleasehelpmegodohpleaseIdon’twanttodie.
After what seemed like an eternity, the plane finally leveled out of its forty five-degree climb and decided to stop jerking about quite so much. Then, and only then, did Ringo start to breathe again. He felt the expression of horror melt off his face, his whitened knuckles loosen and his fingers relax their death grip.
“I think I just saw me life flash before my eyes,” George gasped. A smile crackling its way across his rigid mouth, Ringo turned to see the guitarist slumping backwards into his seat, shaking his head and blinking his slightly glazed eyes.
“I don’t know about you, but I saw me death!” Ringo wasn’t really joking, but George laughed anyway, so he laughed, too. It wasn’t even all that funny, but they just kept laughing, their giggles quickly verging on hysterical.
“What’s got into you two, then?” John demanded, crossing one leg over the other and leaning across the aisle.
“No idea,” George shrugged, wiping tears of merriment from his eyes as he glanced sideways at Ringo. The two of them shared a secret grin before bursting into laughter again, bumping shoulders as they threw back their heads and leaned on each other for support.
“You two better not be making up some inside joke over there,” John warned them as Paul looked on bemusedly from behind his shoulder. “I won’t stand for any cliques in this here band.”
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” Paul yawned, draping his arm over John’s shoulders. “We’ll make our own clique over here.”
“You heard the lad,” John told George and Ringo, leaning back against Paul. “We’re our own clique over ‘ere, and this ‘ere side is ours, you hear? No crossing over, you filthy left side clique.”
“Why’d we want to come over to your grotty old right side, anyway?” George sneered. “Everyone knows that the left side’s the best.”
“Yeah, dream on, lah,” Paul snorted, resting his forehead in the crook of John’s neck. Ringo caught John smirking the faintest of smirks as he laid his chin on top of Paul’s head.
Shaking his head, Ringo turned away from the “right side clique.” He’d never entirely understood what went on with those two; one moment, they were at each others’ throats, and the next they were cuddling like a pair of sleepy kittens. With John and Paul, he always felt like he was missing some vital piece of information, some important event that had gone unnoticed. To make matters worse, the two of them were the most secretive bastards he’d ever met. Always whispering and muttering in each others’ ears, sharing their secret little laughs and looks and smiles. And John didn’t want Ringo and George to make a clique? Bloody hypocrite.
Though, Ringo amended thoughtfully as he saw Paul mumble something into John’s neck, perhaps it was better for everyone involved if he didn’t know everything.
“Cor, I’m tired,” Ringo announced to no one in particular, stretching his arms languidly towards the ceiling. “I could really do with a good kip right about now.”
“Yeah, good luck gettin’ one,” George said dryly, fiddling absently with his armrest. “These bloody seats don’t lean back an inch.”
“Brilliant,” Ringo groaned. “Well, then, I suppose there’s no help for it.”
“No help for wh-” George began, but Ringo was already moving. In one smooth motion, he threw up the center armrest and kicked his legs up, turning sideways and leaning back. Before George could finish his sentence, Ringo was lying across their two narrow seats, his feet resting securely in the guitarist’s lap.
“Hey!” George yelped in outrage, stiffening in his seat. “What d’you think you’re doing, then?”
“Havin’ a nap,” Ringo grinned, folding his hands behind his head and letting his eyes drift shut. “Hope y’don’t mind.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” George retorted, jerking his knees up and down in an attempt to dislodge Ringo’s pointy boots. “I very much mind ‘aving your dirty great feet in me lap!”
“So cruel, Georgie,” Ringo sighed, extracting one hand from behind his head and putting it to his heart. “Whatever will I do?”
“Well, you can start by getting your grotty shoes off me trousers,” George snapped, grabbing Ringo’s ankles and shoving them off his thighs. Ringo’s feet landed on the floor with a jolt that nearly threw him out of his seat.
“’Ey!” It was Ringo’s turn to yowl and sit bolt upright. “How’s a fellow supposed to get any rest around ‘ere, then?”
“Without ‘is feet in me lap,” George declared firmly.
“But Geoooorge,” Ringo whined. “Geoooorgie-porgie, I’m so tiiiiiired!”
Despite the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, George steadfastly ignored Ringo.
“Geoooooorge,” he repeated, leaning right into the guitarist’s personal space and widening his eyes as much as possible. “Geooooooorge, I need sleep, and you know I can’t sleep sittin’ up! Pleeeeeaaase, George!”
“Ringo…” George began irritably, turning to glare at him. But as their eyes locked, Ringo watched a marked change come over George’s face. Was he imagining things, or did those dark, angular features soften? Just for a moment, a second or two, but Ringo was sure he’d seen it. And he was fascinated. Nevertheless, the sharp disappointment he felt when George looked away came as something of a shock.
“Alright, then,” George sighed, now clearly engaged in a full-on battle against his spreading smile. “Go to sleep, you childish little nit.”
Ringo blinked; this couldn’t be true. “Really?” he asked, unable to keep the naïve hopefulness out of his voice.
“Yes, really,” George affirmed. “But could you at least sleep the other way round?” he added as Ringo prepared to dump his feet back into his lap.
“Hmm?” Ringo looked back up, surprised. “What d’you mean?”
“I’d rather have your head in me lap than your feet,” George clarified, his voice a bit clipped and the tips of his ears faintly red with embarrassment. “I figure your hair’s gotta be at least a little cleaner than your shoes.”
“Because heaven forbid fastidious little Geo get a bit of mud on ‘is precious trousers,” Ringo said sarcastically, and wow, John was really starting to rub off on him.
“I didn’t think you knew words like fastidious,” George mocked him right back. “I thought your vocabulary maxed out at three syllables.”
“Oh, hilarious, hilarious.” Ringo rolled his eyes. “Because no one’s ever made the dumb drummer joke before.”
“Look, d’you want a nap or not?” George demanded.
“You bet yer mum’s eyes I do,” Ringo replied brightly, swinging his legs round and scooting backwards until his head was firmly nestled in George’s lap. Pillowing his head on one of George’s thighs and clasping his hands on top of his stomach, he couldn’t help but let a triumphant little smile drift onto his lips.
“Stop your smirkin’,” George ordered, but now he was smiling, too, and Ringo really couldn’t suppress that giddy little giggle that escaped his throat.
“Will you two queers keep it down over there?” John called from across the plane. “Some people are tryin’ to get some sleep.”
George and Ringo exchanged a look, eyebrows raised. George’s incredulous expression was enough to make Ringo emit another stream of chuckles. Even George let slip a snigger or two before clapping a hand over his mouth to silence himself.
“Alright, you,” he whispered, giving Ringo’s nose a gentle tap. “Sleep.”
“Alright you yourself,” Ringo murmured back, twitching his nose like an oversized rabbit. “Why’re you so eager for me to shut up? Tired of me company already?”
“No, you git,” George huffed. “I need some bloody sleep too, y’know!”
“Ooh, par-don me,” Ringo smirked. “How could I forget that your highness needs beauty sleep?”
“Shut up over there!” John roared, silencing George’s unspoken reply. He settled for sticking his tongue out at Ringo and leaning back into his seat. Ringo blew him a very, very quiet raspberry before letting his head loll back against George’s leg. Comfortable at last, he let his eyes flutter shut. Almost immediately, he slipped into sleep.