Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 28)
Time/Location: June 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
Was it really that fucking simple to him? A few kisses and everyone’s happy? As if feelings and stomach-churning heartaches meant absolutely nothing?!
Authors Note: More things were meant to happen in this chapter, but then it would be too long. So next chapter will be a short continuation of this one.
He had to tell somebody. He had to tell anybody. This whole thing; kissing George, his cuddling up with George, their conversations and sudden intimacy… he didn’t understand it. And he’d done the sensible thing and asked George, but that certainly hadn’t been any help whatsoever. On the contrary, it had just made Ringo more confused… and more concerned than ever. And the whole thing was beginning to get torturous. He played it over and over inside his head; a timeline of events, trying to work out at which point George could have… dare he say it? Fallen for him?
And Christ, even with unlimited amounts of optimism, followed by a helping of despair and self-doubt… nothing he did made the situation any simpler. He needed to get it out; he had to talk to someone.
His opportunity came around lunchtime. It was the day after his conversation with George. The one in which George had admitted to feeling no pain in his ankle… and had asked if he was going to die. That conversation haunted Ringo’s brain, landed him with yet another sleepless night., laying agitatedly beside George. And yet he was going to keep his promise to the guitarist, and not let slip any of those confessions to John or Paul. Why George requested that, he had no idea. But he would respect it.
Even so, he couldn’t hold back his good news any longer.
The dazzling, mind-blowing confession that he and George had shared secret kisses in the dead of night. It sounded better and better every time he repeated it to himself, and more and more like a fantasy……. and yet it was true.
By 1.00 in the afternoon, Paul and George were fast asleep upstairs. Paul had thrown up just a couple of hours earlier, and George……. well George had barely said a word all day. In the end it was decided they should go to a proper bed and try and sleep off some of this disgusting illness, which was becoming less and less appealing everyday. It may have offered immunity, but Ringo didn’t know how much longer he could watch the pair of them tear their throats apart, sweat out their insides and - in George’s case - fall in and out of hallucinations.
Ringo stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching them. Paul was resting his head on top of his hand, fidgeting every now and then, turning himself backwards and forwards; restless even in sleep. George was sleeping next to him, much more still, with the duvet pulled up against his chin. As Paul rolled over, he pulled the duvet cover away, and Ringo could see George’s working leg pulled up against his chest, lying half in foetal position. A couple of seconds later and George yanked the duvet back in his sleep, pulling it up once again to cover his lips.
A small snigger sounded from behind Ringo.
He turned, and John was standing beside him. How long he’d been there, the drummer didn’t know, but John was watching their two younger bandmates with the same air of fascination and high regard.
Ringo smiled, warmly. “Watchin’ him sleep now, are we? You goin’ soft on us, Lennon?”
“I wasn’t actually.” John sniped. “I was comin’ up to stop YOU pervin’. I knew you’d be at it. You’ll be fetchin’ yourself a set o’ binoculars next. You’ll be settin’ up a secret camera.”
“Yeah yeah.” Ringo chuckled.
He cast one look back to his two best friends, still firmly locked inside their dreamworlds, before softly taking hold on John’s elbow.
“Come on…”
And it was then that he poured out every single secret kiss, troubled thought, recurring inhibition and blissful memory. For his part, John sat in near silence - or as close to silence as John Lennon could get, though of course he couldn’t resist the odd snide and wisecrack, but Ringo didn’t mind. It was a terrific relief to pour it from his chest; to brag subtly, and hold his head in pride as he described how George willingly woke him in bed for a few more stolen kisses.
And perhaps John were SO surprised that Ringo ought to feel a little offended, but actually, John’s disbelieving stare just made his heart swell even more in achievement.
“It was all him John!” He smiled, “Not me. All him. And he really… I dunno… it feels… right, you know? Or does that sound stupid?”
“Fuck Ritch.” John frowned, crushing a breadstick into the table. His excuse for such a fetish of the things was ‘replacement cigarettes’. “Sounds fuckin’ messed up to me.”
“No… you weren’t there; it was nice.”
“Oh, you know what Ringo? You have too much of a soft heart, that’s your trouble.”
“Thanks?” the drummer frowned
“Yeah. And a soft head to match! What the hell are you thinkin’!?”
Momentarily. Ringo was taken aback. Just what the hell was John talking about? Ringo assumed he’d be pleased for him… after all, he’d told John how much he loved George. Surely the guy could find an ounce of happiness inside him for such a massive progression? What was he worried about? That George and Ringo’s new relationship might upstage his and Pauls? Knowing John, that was probably it; selfish bastard.
“George is off his head at the moment!” John cried, exasperated. “Have you not seen ‘im?! He can barely hold ‘is own fuckin’ head up, he’s so messed up!!”
Ringo’s heart dropped. “He’s… he’s fine! What? He’s okay.”
John said nothing after that. He took another bite off the breadstick, chewing thoughtfully. Ringo could practically see the revelations soaring through his mind, could feel his mind ticking over excuses for George, reasons why this was NOT a genuine liaison. And now he wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
Eventually John spoke.
“He’s gotta put a lotta trust in us, ‘asn’t he? He can’t even walk. In THIS fucking mind-fuck of a world! I mean… imagine ‘aving to rely on a bunch of bastards like us!!”
Ringo scowled. Yeah, HE was the bastard, right. “What’s your point?”
“If that were me I’d probably suck off whoever it took, just to keep safe.”
“Oh shut up John, George isn’t like that!”
“Well I dunno! I know he was straight last week.”
“What? And you don’t think I’ve thought of that?!”
“So!”
“So that means nothing!” Ringo insisted, “I’m straight too, and so is fucking Paul! But it doesn’t mean a thing does it?”
He’d made a good point he felt. A point he’d spent hours retelling himself in the dead of night. Yes, George was straight, but he could still fall in love with a guy. Just like John and Paul had. Just like Ringo had done so very severely.
But John wasn’t convinced.
He shook his head disdainfully.
“Just think with yer head Ritch, yeah? Not your… cock.”
Had John ever been wrong before?
* * * * *
Of course, John couldn’t keep all of this new information to himself. Once he got past the shock, he began to realise: Oh, the hilarity of it! - George, that conspicuous little cock-tease! Who would have thought? What other tricks had the minx been hiding these past few days? John contemplated it gleefully. He just had to tell Paul. Ringo had never told him not to, and he would have been stupid to assume John wouldn’t. And so when Paul woke up around 5.30, John jumped at the first opportunity they had alone together.
They were in the bedroom. They were moving all of the pillows and duvets downstairs, because the four of them had decided to sleep in the living room that night, just for a change of scene. George and Ringo were downstairs, busily making paper-chains to make it look like some kind of party scene. Oh, what they resorted to when they didn’t have TV or marijuana!
Paul was busy bundling up the duvets when John pounced on him.
He grabbed him from behind, wrapping two squeezing arms around his waist and pulling him backwards. Paul chuckled lightly, tripping on the mattress and falling completely into John’s possessive hold; at John’s mercy for just a couple of seconds before he regained his balance. John squeezed him tighter still, listening with great pleasure to Paul’s gasps for breath amidst gleeful giggles.
“St-stop I can’t breathe!”
John released him only slightly, so Paul could twist around inside his hold. Now face to face, Paul wrapped his own arms around John’s neck, accepted John’s lips against his own. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as John nibbled ever so gently on his bottom lip. But then John pulled away. And when Paul opened his eyes again, John had a wide grin on his face, his eyes sparkling with a deviousness he only possessed when he had some kind of wily plan.
“I know something you don’t know!!” He chanted, delightedly.
Paul’s lips stretched into a smirk, his chest still pressed against John’s as he replied, with determined nonchalance, “Tell me?”
“About George.”
“Mmm?”
“And Ringo.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose slightly higher. “What now?!”
John performed a theatrical snigger; shaking his shoulders and burying his head into Paul’s shoulder in feign prudeness and embarrassment.
“What??” Paul giggled
“Hehehe!” John chuckled exaggeratedly. “They’ve have been - oh I can’t say it!” he teased.
“Say it!” Paul whined, “What? What is it?”
John grinned widely. “Our George… and our Ringo… have been kissing!”
An eager glint appeared in Paul’s eye, “Yeah, and??”
And suddenly John’s wicked grin faded. His raised eyebrows dropped into a scowl, his hands falling loose around the bassists’ shoulders.
“What do you mean ‘yeah, and?! They’ve KISSED Paul. George and Ringo.”
“Huh? Yeah… I know. Is that it?”
“YES! And a bit more of a reaction would be nice!”
“What, that’s it?!” Paul frowned, suddenly looking disappointed. “I already knew they kissed!”
And then it was John’s turn to look disappointed. His hands dropped completely from the bassists shoulders, his face twisting into a grimace. “What do you mean, you already knew?!”
Paul shrugged. “George told me.”
“When!?”
“I dunno, two days ago?… three days ago? I lose track.”
“You are jokin’?!” John suddenly snapped. He pulled away from Paul, and the bassist’s hands flopped to his side, his expression one of infuriating confusion. “So I’ve been the only one left in the dark about all this for days?!”
“I thought you knew!”
“No, I didn’t know.”
Paul grinned, raising his nose complacently. “Oh! Well that actually makes me feel rather special, as it happens!” he chided in his best Queens-English.
Smug little bastard.
“You don’t even sound like you’re fuckin’ bothered about it.” John pointed out, feeling oddly frustrated by Paul’s attitude, for reasons he couldn’t explain.
“Well.” Paul shrugged. “S’up to them, isn’t it?”
Paul shuffled past John’s intrusive figure, once again picking up the duvet cover ready to lug down the stairs. But John wasn’t finished with him.
“So when George told you all of this… did he sound like he was… you know, into it?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Paul replied, with frustrating breeziness. “He was just sorta mumblin’ about it. I think he was embarrassed to say anythin’, you know.”
“Yes.” John replied, his teeth gritted in annoyance. “But did ‘e sound like he gave a shit, or was he just pissin’ about?”
Paul frowned. “They’re just having a laugh, aren’t they? Nought wrong with that.”
“Havin’ a laugh? Ringo’s in love with the little fucker!”
“Yeah, well Ringo’s gettin’ what he wants n’ all! What he’s always wanted!”
John glared at Paul, open mouthed. What? Was it really that fucking simple to him? A few kisses and everyone’s happy? As if feelings and stomach-churning heartaches meant absolutely nothing?! As if Ringo could rest assured now for the rest of his life, because his lips had touched George’s? As if that would make things better when George ultimately would drop him like hot potato for a shag with a bird? But it’s okay, because Ringo got a few moments of fun with him?!
He took a deep breath, his heart hammering angrily.
“So is that what me and you are doin’ then, Paul? Are we just ‘havin’ a laugh’?!”
Paul looked up, his eyes meeting John’s for a moment, and widening with realisation. With realisation that John was serious, and none of this was a joke to him.
He dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.” he muttered.
“No?” John moved forward, his eyes locked on the bassist, determined for some fucking insight into whatever the hell he was feeling. John was sick of playing mind-games to work it out. If he’d learnt anything, it was that life was too short. “So what is it then?!”
“I dunno.” Paul mumbled agitatedly. “Jus… what do you want me to SAY John!? It’s not MY fault George is kissin’ Ringo!”
“I’m not taking about that anymore! I’m talking about us!”
“Well why?! We’re FINE aren’t we?!”
“For how long though?! Until you get bored of ‘pissin’ about’, eh?”
“No.”
“Well tell me then.”
Silence descended in the room. John stood in the way of the doorway, watching Paul with determination and stubbornness. He needed this. He needed some kind of reflection from Paul whether he was feeling an ounce of what John was. But Paul was some obstinate little shit as well…. perhaps even more so because he had more patience. He stood; mouth closed, eyes angry, clutching the duvet cover in an infuriating display of willpower.
“Fuck this; I don’t have to answer to you.”
“No, don’t do me any favours.”
“Look, what do you WANT?!”
“Fuck Paul, I want YOU!” John yelled. “I want you!”
“Yeah, and you’ve got me!! You’ve got me, John.”
“I want all of you! I don’t jus’ want… you RESIGNING when you’re feeling fuckin’ randy.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“No. I know you Paul.”
Paul dropped the duvet cover in sudden rage, his fists clenched as he snapped, “Fuck you! Don’t tell me how I do and don’t feel John!”
“Jesus Paul, I’m not tryin’ to fuckin’ wind you up, I’m tryin’ to tell you something!!”
“Well you DO wind me up! You ALWAYS try and wind me up! And guess what? It’s fucking worked!”
Paul stormed forwards, pushing past John’s obtrusive figure for the doorway, but John grabbed him by the elbows, holding him steady.
“Get off!” Paul moaned, “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?!”
“God Paul, only YOU could turn a bit of gossip into such geriatrics!”
“Only YOU could. Get off, I’m goin’ downstairs.”
“I want you Paul.”
John’s voice wasn’t angry any more, or confrontational. It was hoarse, intimate… and even a little bit desperate. He moved closer to the bassist, their faces inches apart. Paul opened his mouth to reply, but John stopped him.
“I want you… I want to have you. I want to do everything with you.”
“I……” Paul frowned, momentarily stunned. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“Oh come on Paul, it’s not fucking rocket science. I want us to be together. Properly.”
If it was possible, Paul’s eyes became even wider, as realisation washed over him.
“What? I……” Paul swallowed, words failing to come to him for the first time ever. “Are you serious?”
“Course I’m serious. I told you I loved you Paul; I’m not the fuckin’ prude that you seem to be!”
But judging by Paul’s angry and affronted expression, that wasn’t exactly the best way for John to get his way with him. And just before Paul could successfully push him away, John pulled the bassist closer to him, his hand raking through his dark locks.
“I’m not saying now. I’m saying… one day. I want to feel you everywhere.”
“John, fuck that, I’m not doing that.” Paul breathed
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“No! What? Come on, no way, that’s just too far.”
And yet despite the words that were coming from his mouth, a strange exhilarated shiver was moving its way up from the bassists toes. His breathing was becoming disturbingly faster and more erratic… mirroring John’s. John drew closer, and began placing small butterfly kisses across the younger mans neck. At that point, Paul realised John knew. He knew that Paul would give in to him eventually. Paul always ended up giving into John eventually; it was his biggest weakness and self-loathe. And even now in his conscious state of disapproval, he felt himself sinking into John’s power and taste. He felt his body turn more limp inside such prevailing arms, felt himself become John’s.
And John did nothing. He held him tight, kissed his neck and collar bone.
And then he straightened himself up.
He walked around Paul, leaving the bassist standing slightly bewildered in the doorway.
John scooped up the duvet cover, edged past Paul and onto the landing.
“One day I’ll have you.” he said softly.
And at that moment… in the state of compliancy… Paul nodded his head.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t think anything. He just nodded his head.
Because truth be told, it had been coming all along. From the very first day they met each other, it had been hanging in the air like thick and powerful smoke. One day, Paul would have to give himself over to John completely. He had to, because it wasn’t queer, it wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t dirty - it was right, and it was necessary. One day, Paul would allow himself to become all his, whether he liked it or not. And that day seemed to be looming closer and closer every day.
In the living room there were a few dim lamps placed around, paper-chains draped from the ceiling, ice cream and hot cross buns and crisps, and coke (with scotch for John, Paul and Ringo). They’d laid out the two duvet covers across the floor, separated only by a few centimetres of floor. They didn’t have television, so instead Paul and Ringo each took turn standing up in front of the television set and doing their own comedy sketches. It was a good evening, and it managed to pass without anybody being sick or hallucinating, although George did drift in and out of sleep. When a Bob Dylan record was put on, John and Paul made up some wacky dance, acting out each line of the song in some clownish charade. For George, laughing hurt his throat and back, but he didn’t care - it was a gentle relief.
At one point, Paul and Ringo skipped from the room in order to find costumes for their next piece of acting. It was then that John took the opportune moment, and scooched up beside George for a pep talk. George already knew he had something serious to say before John even opened his mouth, and he had a very good feeling what it was about as well.
“George,” John whispered. “You better not be fuckin’ with Ringo.”
“What do you mean ‘fuckin’ with him’?”
“Oh, come on, don’t play dumb with me. The guys in love with you, alright? And none of us are gonna be leavin’ you behind or feedin’ you to the dragons, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t need to be whorin’ yourself out to him if you don’t feel ought for ‘im.”
“I… I do.” George insisted quietly. “He’s my best friend.”
“I’M your best friend, are you gonna tongue me?!”
George rolled his eyes, looking stubbornly down at his fingers as he fiddled with the corner of the duvet. He really was sickly pale, John noticed. Even when tinted by the warm orange lights of the living room.
And so he took pity on the bugger.
“Look,” he sighed. “Just don’t break his heart alright? You know Ritch; he’s soft. And the twinkle in his eye is actually the sun shinin’ between ‘is ears.”
George burst out laughing at that. Scratched and croaking laughter, but laughter all the same. John grinned, opening his mouth to add further wisecrack, but was cut short when Paul burst dramatically into the room, introducing a very shameless Ringo who was dressed - a little too suitably - in one of the dresses they’d found in the upstairs wardrobe. As a result, the conversation was well and truly forgotten.
By 1.00am, they were all laying in their designated positions, wrapped tight and warm under the duvets. George was shivering lightly again, even though the living room felt very hot by normal standards. Ringo wrapped his arms tightly around the young guitarist, pulling him close to Ringo’s chest for warmth, spooning him. George clutched to Ringo’s arms with pale, shaking hands.
“How’re you feelin’?” the drummer whispered into his ear.
George smiled. “Floppy.”
“Floppy?”
“My body feels all heavy.”
Ringo chuckled, his breath softly tickling George’s ear as he did so. “Oh, floppy.”
And feeling that he could, he chanced a small kiss onto the back of George’s neck.
“Night fellas.” he breathed. John and Paul were laying only inches away, pressing small, sleepy kisses onto one another’s faces. John continued to stroke soothing notions across the bassist’s forehead, wiping his sweaty fringe from his eyes. He seemed to be uttering words of reassurance, but Ringo couldn’t work out why.
“It’ll be fine Paul. It’s whenever you want to.”
The minutes passed, and gradually everything inside the dimly lit living room became still, and the sound of soft breathing once again filled the room. It would remain that way, Ringo supposed, until somebody had a nightmare. Nightmares had become almost a ritual over the last week or so; all of them had woken up to one at least twice.
Ringo was just closing his eyes however, when he received yet another night-time surprise from George.
George’s cold hand reached for Ringo’s, gently prising it from his own chest. He linked his fingers in with the drummers, and Ringo gave them a gentle squeeze. And then, before Ringo knew it, George was manoeuvring the drummers hand down his body, making it brush against George’s stomach, and land in a very particular place between the guitarists legs. He released his hand, and Ringo wavered uncertainly, not knowing exactly what to do next, his heart beating erratically. George assisted him once more; he pressed his hand down on top of Ringo’s, pushing Ringo’s hand down, to feel George’s hardness beneath the thin pyjama bottoms.
Ringo took a deep breath. His one other arm was still draped over George, fastening tightly around his chest, and he could feel George’s heartbeat hammering from his own nervousness. As if asking for silent permission, the drummer pressed yet another kiss onto the back of George’s neck.
George pushed into Ringo’s hand.
And by some miracle from God, Ringo knew he’d gotten what he always wanted.
He closed his hand around George’s thinly covered erection, heard the younger sigh ever-so-softly, only loud enough for the drummer to hear.
And then Ringo began to attend to another night-time secret.
Time/Location: June 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
Was it really that fucking simple to him? A few kisses and everyone’s happy? As if feelings and stomach-churning heartaches meant absolutely nothing?!
Authors Note: More things were meant to happen in this chapter, but then it would be too long. So next chapter will be a short continuation of this one.
He had to tell somebody. He had to tell anybody. This whole thing; kissing George, his cuddling up with George, their conversations and sudden intimacy… he didn’t understand it. And he’d done the sensible thing and asked George, but that certainly hadn’t been any help whatsoever. On the contrary, it had just made Ringo more confused… and more concerned than ever. And the whole thing was beginning to get torturous. He played it over and over inside his head; a timeline of events, trying to work out at which point George could have… dare he say it? Fallen for him?
And Christ, even with unlimited amounts of optimism, followed by a helping of despair and self-doubt… nothing he did made the situation any simpler. He needed to get it out; he had to talk to someone.
His opportunity came around lunchtime. It was the day after his conversation with George. The one in which George had admitted to feeling no pain in his ankle… and had asked if he was going to die. That conversation haunted Ringo’s brain, landed him with yet another sleepless night., laying agitatedly beside George. And yet he was going to keep his promise to the guitarist, and not let slip any of those confessions to John or Paul. Why George requested that, he had no idea. But he would respect it.
Even so, he couldn’t hold back his good news any longer.
The dazzling, mind-blowing confession that he and George had shared secret kisses in the dead of night. It sounded better and better every time he repeated it to himself, and more and more like a fantasy……. and yet it was true.
By 1.00 in the afternoon, Paul and George were fast asleep upstairs. Paul had thrown up just a couple of hours earlier, and George……. well George had barely said a word all day. In the end it was decided they should go to a proper bed and try and sleep off some of this disgusting illness, which was becoming less and less appealing everyday. It may have offered immunity, but Ringo didn’t know how much longer he could watch the pair of them tear their throats apart, sweat out their insides and - in George’s case - fall in and out of hallucinations.
Ringo stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching them. Paul was resting his head on top of his hand, fidgeting every now and then, turning himself backwards and forwards; restless even in sleep. George was sleeping next to him, much more still, with the duvet pulled up against his chin. As Paul rolled over, he pulled the duvet cover away, and Ringo could see George’s working leg pulled up against his chest, lying half in foetal position. A couple of seconds later and George yanked the duvet back in his sleep, pulling it up once again to cover his lips.
A small snigger sounded from behind Ringo.
He turned, and John was standing beside him. How long he’d been there, the drummer didn’t know, but John was watching their two younger bandmates with the same air of fascination and high regard.
Ringo smiled, warmly. “Watchin’ him sleep now, are we? You goin’ soft on us, Lennon?”
“I wasn’t actually.” John sniped. “I was comin’ up to stop YOU pervin’. I knew you’d be at it. You’ll be fetchin’ yourself a set o’ binoculars next. You’ll be settin’ up a secret camera.”
“Yeah yeah.” Ringo chuckled.
He cast one look back to his two best friends, still firmly locked inside their dreamworlds, before softly taking hold on John’s elbow.
“Come on…”
And it was then that he poured out every single secret kiss, troubled thought, recurring inhibition and blissful memory. For his part, John sat in near silence - or as close to silence as John Lennon could get, though of course he couldn’t resist the odd snide and wisecrack, but Ringo didn’t mind. It was a terrific relief to pour it from his chest; to brag subtly, and hold his head in pride as he described how George willingly woke him in bed for a few more stolen kisses.
And perhaps John were SO surprised that Ringo ought to feel a little offended, but actually, John’s disbelieving stare just made his heart swell even more in achievement.
“It was all him John!” He smiled, “Not me. All him. And he really… I dunno… it feels… right, you know? Or does that sound stupid?”
“Fuck Ritch.” John frowned, crushing a breadstick into the table. His excuse for such a fetish of the things was ‘replacement cigarettes’. “Sounds fuckin’ messed up to me.”
“No… you weren’t there; it was nice.”
“Oh, you know what Ringo? You have too much of a soft heart, that’s your trouble.”
“Thanks?” the drummer frowned
“Yeah. And a soft head to match! What the hell are you thinkin’!?”
Momentarily. Ringo was taken aback. Just what the hell was John talking about? Ringo assumed he’d be pleased for him… after all, he’d told John how much he loved George. Surely the guy could find an ounce of happiness inside him for such a massive progression? What was he worried about? That George and Ringo’s new relationship might upstage his and Pauls? Knowing John, that was probably it; selfish bastard.
“George is off his head at the moment!” John cried, exasperated. “Have you not seen ‘im?! He can barely hold ‘is own fuckin’ head up, he’s so messed up!!”
Ringo’s heart dropped. “He’s… he’s fine! What? He’s okay.”
John said nothing after that. He took another bite off the breadstick, chewing thoughtfully. Ringo could practically see the revelations soaring through his mind, could feel his mind ticking over excuses for George, reasons why this was NOT a genuine liaison. And now he wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
Eventually John spoke.
“He’s gotta put a lotta trust in us, ‘asn’t he? He can’t even walk. In THIS fucking mind-fuck of a world! I mean… imagine ‘aving to rely on a bunch of bastards like us!!”
Ringo scowled. Yeah, HE was the bastard, right. “What’s your point?”
“If that were me I’d probably suck off whoever it took, just to keep safe.”
“Oh shut up John, George isn’t like that!”
“Well I dunno! I know he was straight last week.”
“What? And you don’t think I’ve thought of that?!”
“So!”
“So that means nothing!” Ringo insisted, “I’m straight too, and so is fucking Paul! But it doesn’t mean a thing does it?”
He’d made a good point he felt. A point he’d spent hours retelling himself in the dead of night. Yes, George was straight, but he could still fall in love with a guy. Just like John and Paul had. Just like Ringo had done so very severely.
But John wasn’t convinced.
He shook his head disdainfully.
“Just think with yer head Ritch, yeah? Not your… cock.”
Had John ever been wrong before?
* * * * *
Of course, John couldn’t keep all of this new information to himself. Once he got past the shock, he began to realise: Oh, the hilarity of it! - George, that conspicuous little cock-tease! Who would have thought? What other tricks had the minx been hiding these past few days? John contemplated it gleefully. He just had to tell Paul. Ringo had never told him not to, and he would have been stupid to assume John wouldn’t. And so when Paul woke up around 5.30, John jumped at the first opportunity they had alone together.
They were in the bedroom. They were moving all of the pillows and duvets downstairs, because the four of them had decided to sleep in the living room that night, just for a change of scene. George and Ringo were downstairs, busily making paper-chains to make it look like some kind of party scene. Oh, what they resorted to when they didn’t have TV or marijuana!
Paul was busy bundling up the duvets when John pounced on him.
He grabbed him from behind, wrapping two squeezing arms around his waist and pulling him backwards. Paul chuckled lightly, tripping on the mattress and falling completely into John’s possessive hold; at John’s mercy for just a couple of seconds before he regained his balance. John squeezed him tighter still, listening with great pleasure to Paul’s gasps for breath amidst gleeful giggles.
“St-stop I can’t breathe!”
John released him only slightly, so Paul could twist around inside his hold. Now face to face, Paul wrapped his own arms around John’s neck, accepted John’s lips against his own. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as John nibbled ever so gently on his bottom lip. But then John pulled away. And when Paul opened his eyes again, John had a wide grin on his face, his eyes sparkling with a deviousness he only possessed when he had some kind of wily plan.
“I know something you don’t know!!” He chanted, delightedly.
Paul’s lips stretched into a smirk, his chest still pressed against John’s as he replied, with determined nonchalance, “Tell me?”
“About George.”
“Mmm?”
“And Ringo.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose slightly higher. “What now?!”
John performed a theatrical snigger; shaking his shoulders and burying his head into Paul’s shoulder in feign prudeness and embarrassment.
“What??” Paul giggled
“Hehehe!” John chuckled exaggeratedly. “They’ve have been - oh I can’t say it!” he teased.
“Say it!” Paul whined, “What? What is it?”
John grinned widely. “Our George… and our Ringo… have been kissing!”
An eager glint appeared in Paul’s eye, “Yeah, and??”
And suddenly John’s wicked grin faded. His raised eyebrows dropped into a scowl, his hands falling loose around the bassists’ shoulders.
“What do you mean ‘yeah, and?! They’ve KISSED Paul. George and Ringo.”
“Huh? Yeah… I know. Is that it?”
“YES! And a bit more of a reaction would be nice!”
“What, that’s it?!” Paul frowned, suddenly looking disappointed. “I already knew they kissed!”
And then it was John’s turn to look disappointed. His hands dropped completely from the bassists shoulders, his face twisting into a grimace. “What do you mean, you already knew?!”
Paul shrugged. “George told me.”
“When!?”
“I dunno, two days ago?… three days ago? I lose track.”
“You are jokin’?!” John suddenly snapped. He pulled away from Paul, and the bassist’s hands flopped to his side, his expression one of infuriating confusion. “So I’ve been the only one left in the dark about all this for days?!”
“I thought you knew!”
“No, I didn’t know.”
Paul grinned, raising his nose complacently. “Oh! Well that actually makes me feel rather special, as it happens!” he chided in his best Queens-English.
Smug little bastard.
“You don’t even sound like you’re fuckin’ bothered about it.” John pointed out, feeling oddly frustrated by Paul’s attitude, for reasons he couldn’t explain.
“Well.” Paul shrugged. “S’up to them, isn’t it?”
Paul shuffled past John’s intrusive figure, once again picking up the duvet cover ready to lug down the stairs. But John wasn’t finished with him.
“So when George told you all of this… did he sound like he was… you know, into it?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Paul replied, with frustrating breeziness. “He was just sorta mumblin’ about it. I think he was embarrassed to say anythin’, you know.”
“Yes.” John replied, his teeth gritted in annoyance. “But did ‘e sound like he gave a shit, or was he just pissin’ about?”
Paul frowned. “They’re just having a laugh, aren’t they? Nought wrong with that.”
“Havin’ a laugh? Ringo’s in love with the little fucker!”
“Yeah, well Ringo’s gettin’ what he wants n’ all! What he’s always wanted!”
John glared at Paul, open mouthed. What? Was it really that fucking simple to him? A few kisses and everyone’s happy? As if feelings and stomach-churning heartaches meant absolutely nothing?! As if Ringo could rest assured now for the rest of his life, because his lips had touched George’s? As if that would make things better when George ultimately would drop him like hot potato for a shag with a bird? But it’s okay, because Ringo got a few moments of fun with him?!
He took a deep breath, his heart hammering angrily.
“So is that what me and you are doin’ then, Paul? Are we just ‘havin’ a laugh’?!”
Paul looked up, his eyes meeting John’s for a moment, and widening with realisation. With realisation that John was serious, and none of this was a joke to him.
He dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.” he muttered.
“No?” John moved forward, his eyes locked on the bassist, determined for some fucking insight into whatever the hell he was feeling. John was sick of playing mind-games to work it out. If he’d learnt anything, it was that life was too short. “So what is it then?!”
“I dunno.” Paul mumbled agitatedly. “Jus… what do you want me to SAY John!? It’s not MY fault George is kissin’ Ringo!”
“I’m not taking about that anymore! I’m talking about us!”
“Well why?! We’re FINE aren’t we?!”
“For how long though?! Until you get bored of ‘pissin’ about’, eh?”
“No.”
“Well tell me then.”
Silence descended in the room. John stood in the way of the doorway, watching Paul with determination and stubbornness. He needed this. He needed some kind of reflection from Paul whether he was feeling an ounce of what John was. But Paul was some obstinate little shit as well…. perhaps even more so because he had more patience. He stood; mouth closed, eyes angry, clutching the duvet cover in an infuriating display of willpower.
“Fuck this; I don’t have to answer to you.”
“No, don’t do me any favours.”
“Look, what do you WANT?!”
“Fuck Paul, I want YOU!” John yelled. “I want you!”
“Yeah, and you’ve got me!! You’ve got me, John.”
“I want all of you! I don’t jus’ want… you RESIGNING when you’re feeling fuckin’ randy.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“No. I know you Paul.”
Paul dropped the duvet cover in sudden rage, his fists clenched as he snapped, “Fuck you! Don’t tell me how I do and don’t feel John!”
“Jesus Paul, I’m not tryin’ to fuckin’ wind you up, I’m tryin’ to tell you something!!”
“Well you DO wind me up! You ALWAYS try and wind me up! And guess what? It’s fucking worked!”
Paul stormed forwards, pushing past John’s obtrusive figure for the doorway, but John grabbed him by the elbows, holding him steady.
“Get off!” Paul moaned, “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?!”
“God Paul, only YOU could turn a bit of gossip into such geriatrics!”
“Only YOU could. Get off, I’m goin’ downstairs.”
“I want you Paul.”
John’s voice wasn’t angry any more, or confrontational. It was hoarse, intimate… and even a little bit desperate. He moved closer to the bassist, their faces inches apart. Paul opened his mouth to reply, but John stopped him.
“I want you… I want to have you. I want to do everything with you.”
“I……” Paul frowned, momentarily stunned. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“Oh come on Paul, it’s not fucking rocket science. I want us to be together. Properly.”
If it was possible, Paul’s eyes became even wider, as realisation washed over him.
“What? I……” Paul swallowed, words failing to come to him for the first time ever. “Are you serious?”
“Course I’m serious. I told you I loved you Paul; I’m not the fuckin’ prude that you seem to be!”
But judging by Paul’s angry and affronted expression, that wasn’t exactly the best way for John to get his way with him. And just before Paul could successfully push him away, John pulled the bassist closer to him, his hand raking through his dark locks.
“I’m not saying now. I’m saying… one day. I want to feel you everywhere.”
“John, fuck that, I’m not doing that.” Paul breathed
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“No! What? Come on, no way, that’s just too far.”
And yet despite the words that were coming from his mouth, a strange exhilarated shiver was moving its way up from the bassists toes. His breathing was becoming disturbingly faster and more erratic… mirroring John’s. John drew closer, and began placing small butterfly kisses across the younger mans neck. At that point, Paul realised John knew. He knew that Paul would give in to him eventually. Paul always ended up giving into John eventually; it was his biggest weakness and self-loathe. And even now in his conscious state of disapproval, he felt himself sinking into John’s power and taste. He felt his body turn more limp inside such prevailing arms, felt himself become John’s.
And John did nothing. He held him tight, kissed his neck and collar bone.
And then he straightened himself up.
He walked around Paul, leaving the bassist standing slightly bewildered in the doorway.
John scooped up the duvet cover, edged past Paul and onto the landing.
“One day I’ll have you.” he said softly.
And at that moment… in the state of compliancy… Paul nodded his head.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t think anything. He just nodded his head.
Because truth be told, it had been coming all along. From the very first day they met each other, it had been hanging in the air like thick and powerful smoke. One day, Paul would have to give himself over to John completely. He had to, because it wasn’t queer, it wasn’t wrong, it wasn’t dirty - it was right, and it was necessary. One day, Paul would allow himself to become all his, whether he liked it or not. And that day seemed to be looming closer and closer every day.
In the living room there were a few dim lamps placed around, paper-chains draped from the ceiling, ice cream and hot cross buns and crisps, and coke (with scotch for John, Paul and Ringo). They’d laid out the two duvet covers across the floor, separated only by a few centimetres of floor. They didn’t have television, so instead Paul and Ringo each took turn standing up in front of the television set and doing their own comedy sketches. It was a good evening, and it managed to pass without anybody being sick or hallucinating, although George did drift in and out of sleep. When a Bob Dylan record was put on, John and Paul made up some wacky dance, acting out each line of the song in some clownish charade. For George, laughing hurt his throat and back, but he didn’t care - it was a gentle relief.
At one point, Paul and Ringo skipped from the room in order to find costumes for their next piece of acting. It was then that John took the opportune moment, and scooched up beside George for a pep talk. George already knew he had something serious to say before John even opened his mouth, and he had a very good feeling what it was about as well.
“George,” John whispered. “You better not be fuckin’ with Ringo.”
“What do you mean ‘fuckin’ with him’?”
“Oh, come on, don’t play dumb with me. The guys in love with you, alright? And none of us are gonna be leavin’ you behind or feedin’ you to the dragons, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t need to be whorin’ yourself out to him if you don’t feel ought for ‘im.”
“I… I do.” George insisted quietly. “He’s my best friend.”
“I’M your best friend, are you gonna tongue me?!”
George rolled his eyes, looking stubbornly down at his fingers as he fiddled with the corner of the duvet. He really was sickly pale, John noticed. Even when tinted by the warm orange lights of the living room.
And so he took pity on the bugger.
“Look,” he sighed. “Just don’t break his heart alright? You know Ritch; he’s soft. And the twinkle in his eye is actually the sun shinin’ between ‘is ears.”
George burst out laughing at that. Scratched and croaking laughter, but laughter all the same. John grinned, opening his mouth to add further wisecrack, but was cut short when Paul burst dramatically into the room, introducing a very shameless Ringo who was dressed - a little too suitably - in one of the dresses they’d found in the upstairs wardrobe. As a result, the conversation was well and truly forgotten.
By 1.00am, they were all laying in their designated positions, wrapped tight and warm under the duvets. George was shivering lightly again, even though the living room felt very hot by normal standards. Ringo wrapped his arms tightly around the young guitarist, pulling him close to Ringo’s chest for warmth, spooning him. George clutched to Ringo’s arms with pale, shaking hands.
“How’re you feelin’?” the drummer whispered into his ear.
George smiled. “Floppy.”
“Floppy?”
“My body feels all heavy.”
Ringo chuckled, his breath softly tickling George’s ear as he did so. “Oh, floppy.”
And feeling that he could, he chanced a small kiss onto the back of George’s neck.
“Night fellas.” he breathed. John and Paul were laying only inches away, pressing small, sleepy kisses onto one another’s faces. John continued to stroke soothing notions across the bassist’s forehead, wiping his sweaty fringe from his eyes. He seemed to be uttering words of reassurance, but Ringo couldn’t work out why.
“It’ll be fine Paul. It’s whenever you want to.”
The minutes passed, and gradually everything inside the dimly lit living room became still, and the sound of soft breathing once again filled the room. It would remain that way, Ringo supposed, until somebody had a nightmare. Nightmares had become almost a ritual over the last week or so; all of them had woken up to one at least twice.
Ringo was just closing his eyes however, when he received yet another night-time surprise from George.
George’s cold hand reached for Ringo’s, gently prising it from his own chest. He linked his fingers in with the drummers, and Ringo gave them a gentle squeeze. And then, before Ringo knew it, George was manoeuvring the drummers hand down his body, making it brush against George’s stomach, and land in a very particular place between the guitarists legs. He released his hand, and Ringo wavered uncertainly, not knowing exactly what to do next, his heart beating erratically. George assisted him once more; he pressed his hand down on top of Ringo’s, pushing Ringo’s hand down, to feel George’s hardness beneath the thin pyjama bottoms.
Ringo took a deep breath. His one other arm was still draped over George, fastening tightly around his chest, and he could feel George’s heartbeat hammering from his own nervousness. As if asking for silent permission, the drummer pressed yet another kiss onto the back of George’s neck.
George pushed into Ringo’s hand.
And by some miracle from God, Ringo knew he’d gotten what he always wanted.
He closed his hand around George’s thinly covered erection, heard the younger sigh ever-so-softly, only loud enough for the drummer to hear.
And then Ringo began to attend to another night-time secret.