Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 31)
Time/Location: June 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, uncomfortable themes.
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?
They’d tried singing and nudging, begging and crying, even punching and slapping to make him wake… and still nothing.
Authors Notes: I'll warn you now that very little happens here. Although plot developments are coming. Agh.
It had been in Hamburg when he'd first met George. He'd seen him around Liverpool before then, but never paid any notice; George had just been another one of the lads in another one of the bands, strutting around with nutty Lennon and the other good-looking lad. But in Hamburg, Ringo had started chatting with the guys more. And he remembered now, looking back, George had told him early on that he was only seventeen-years-old. He hadn't sounded embarrassed, just a bit naughty and devious… he wasn't supposed to be there. He was the youngest person in all of Hamburg, it seemed. It was pretty cool really. He made jokes about his age in those days, like reading comic books instead of books. Ringo had felt a LOT older than George back then. Hell, he'd even felt a lot older than John, although he wasn't really. And yet something about George completely charmed him. Something about George charmed everybody, but Ringo particularly liked making him laugh. It was John that people usually tried to impress… but Ringo had never felt that with John; they'd always been easy-going with each other… a simple relationship, equals. With George, Ringo had always felt an overpowering surge of gratification and self-satisfaction when he made George laugh. And even though George was just "the kid" or whatever, Ringo loved hanging out with him. And George made him laugh, of course, with his outrageous comments and clueless inappropriateness. Had it really been that early since he'd fallen for him? Or had it been later on?
When they moved into that flat together, John had always taken the piss out of George's dressing gown. It was sort of black silk… Ringo recalled it being bought by George's mother, which was probably half of John's problem. But John tore him to shreds about the damn thing, and even then, George continued to wear it every day just to spite him. Ringo never said anything, but he loved George in that dressing gown. And when they'd all ridden that boat down that river, and none of them knew how to row until in the end they all just gave up. All except for George, who kept trying to steer the thing all on his own, and in the end he just pushed it round in circles while the other three just sat there laughing there heads off at him. And he didn't even care, he just kept on going. And chucked dirty bits of leaves at them if he was feeling really frustrated.
Ringo remembered when the four of them had got in an argument with some band from Manchester. The leader was an arsehole who picked a fight with them about their hair, and John had started blowing the guy out of the water with all his quick-witted sarcasm. Ringo had just sat there laughing, while Paul had just sort of turned away and pretended he was somewhere else entirely. And then after about half an hour of this, the guy, at his lowest, started on Paul even though Paul wasn't involved in the affair at all. George headbutted him. End of discussion.
Of course, it wasn't REALLY end of discussion cos they'd been chased out of the place after that, but George had been very pleased with himself, and Ringo would never forget that triumphant smile and proud gleam in his eye when John praised him. Brian had been furious but it didn't matter to George. Ringo wished his own praise would get the same response out of George as John's did.
How great those days had been, and how they'd taken it for granted. When they'd all tried on disguises and ran around London together in fake moustaches and beards. They knew it was a risk, but they did it anyway, and they ended up losing George and everyone panicked. And when they found him, he was lurking about in some auction place, cos he "wanted to see how it all turned out". And then Paul bid on some fucking grandfather clock and they had to make another run for it. And the days when they used to do a pre-lash and end up getting so drunk they forgot to even leave the hotel room and attend the nightmare of a dinner-do. They ended up spending the whole night with each others company instead, which they all knew deep down was better than parties or sex, right up till somebody threw up on somebody else's lap.
How great when they could drink without losing their minds, run away from fans not terrorists, be closeted inside hotel rooms and not strange houses with dead people in the garage. How great when they could get high with each other, laugh till their tummies hurt at absolutely nothing, piss each other off without worrying about backlash. When they could complain about jellybean attacks rather than crowbar attacks. When they rode a limo instead of an ambulance, and when an unconscious George could only mean alcohol abuse, and not infection or death. When Ringo could guarantee waking up to George's lopsided smile and shining eyes every morning… without wandering when it would all slip away.
But now, Ringo didn't know what time it was. He didn't even know how many days had passed. They’d all just sat in that room for hours and hours and hours… so many hours. And the whole time they’d been enfolded in pitch blackness. John had eventually bought up some candles, which sent little flickers of light firing into the air, and made their shadows huge and magnificent on the wall. But none of the felt magnificent.
Through all these hours they’d nibbled on bread, but none of them could swallow all that well. They’d barely said a word to each other, barely moved even. Ringo didn't know whether or not he’d even slept. Everything had just been numbing sameness. Just holding and rocking George’s body in his arms. Cradling his beautiful face, begging for his comforting voice. Ringo would do anything to look into those beautiful dark eyes once more.
And as he held George in his arms, he knew he had no right to. He was like the murderer who then called the ambulance. It was his fault, and his fault entirely, that George was in this position. And it hadn’t just been one mistake, no. But thousands. Many selfish, foolish mistakes - results of Ringo’s obsessive, selfish love; he never even looked at the bigger picture. He never thought about George; he just fed his own uncontrollable desire.
When the dog bit George’s ankle, Ringo didn't get help, because he wanted to touch George and have him to himself. HE wanted to look after him. When they had to run, Ringo didn't help George, he made him run on a dodgy ankle - made him break it. When George showed the first signs of temperature, Ringo only used it as an excuse to hold and nurture him. Fuck, he’d USED that illness for his own queer advances… advances George NEVER wanted to begin with. When George got drunk, Ringo voluntarily climbed into bed with him, and let George make advances he didn't want to make. He exploited George’s vulnerability; made George reliant and needy for him. It was like John said… Ringo made George hand himself unwillingly over to Ringo’s lust, just for his own protection. And George had confided in Ringo… his morbid sense of doom… and Ringo had kept it to himself, just so he could feel special.
And now look.
George lay unconscious across Ringo’s lap, where he’d laid for days now. They’d pushed liquefied bread into his mouth. They’d tried singing and nudging, begging and crying, even punching and slapping to make him wake… and still nothing. George was like the terrible patients of ill-health who Ringo saw when he was in hospital. He was one of the people bound to a hospital bed for eternity, with tubes linking to their stomachs and doctors changing their clothes.
Except George didn't have tubes or doctors.
He had friends. Useless fucking friends, who’d done nothing but wronged him or pushed him aside. And now they sat at his side, even more useless than ever. They were all so selfish that none of them had even wanted to push the food into his mouth, they were afraid of doing it wrong, they all said it felt cruel. They argued over who had to do it, even though it was the thing keeping George alive. In the end John had done it… but begrudgingly. Ringo couldn’t even offer George that.
It could have been three days, it could have been thirty. He just didn't know.
But Ringo did know when George was going to come around, even before he did.
The drummer woke with a start. Had he been sleeping? Or had he just been wrapped in a dazed blackout? It didn't matter, what mattered was the figure he was cradling unfailingly in his arms.
“George?” He whispered suddenly.
His heart was pounding, seemingly without reason to… his lips had become dry, his throat clogged.
“George??”
“Mmm…”
For a moment, Ringo thought he was dreaming. His whole blood seemed to freeze up, his heart abruptly congested. It was like a door opening after a year of isolation. George made a noise.
“GEORGE???”
Ringo felt his body shiver, his breathing become harder as he felt George’s shoulders tense inside his arms… George’s body gently moving.
“JOHN! PAUL! WAKE UP!”
“Huh? What is it?!”, they woke with a start.
“George??”
It didn't take longer than a second before his other two bandmates had crawled to the head of the bed, their hands gripping George’s arms and shoulders, or wherever they could reach, their faces placed close to his, probing and shaking.
“Hhmmrumm…”
“Oh, thank fuck.” John groaned
“George , come on…” Ringo coaxed, “Come back, open your eyes…”
“Mmm…” the younger moaned weakly
And then Ringo felt his head fall dizzy and weak with elation, as George’s fingers began to scratch and flail feebly at his pyjama leg, clutching the material between his fingers. His eyes still remained heavily lidded shut, his head hanging limply from Ringo’s arm. The drummer guided George into a careful sitting position, with John lightly holding George’s shoulders to keep him tumbling forwards.
“Rr… rritch?” George’s mumbled. His voice was barely audible, and yet every syllable was heavenly. The sharp intake of breath that echoed around their four closely pressed bodies indicated the others felt the same.
“It’s okay,” Ringo encouraged softly. So much of him was aching to shake George, impatience getting the better of him, DESPERATE to look into those eyes again. But now George’s arm moved; his elbow bending as he gripped tightly to the duvet cover below him. Every movement was like a gracious gift from somewhere above.
John pulled the candle up, illuminating George’s face in a soft, orange glow which cast hard shadows beneath his cheekbones. Ringo nudged him gently, urgent to hear that voice, to feel that movement again.
“’Ey, come on George.” John enticed softly.
“Icanwherami…”
“It’s okay,”
“Open your eyes, George, come on…”
“Yeah, we’re all here,” Ringo assured, “We’re all here, can you hear us?”
“mmm…”
George squeezed harder at the fabric in his hands; one being the duvet cover and the other being John’s sleeve. His head flayed sideways slightly, nuzzling against Ringo’s chest. He seemed to be struggling to open his eyes, and probably growing more alarmed as a result. Ringo hushed him softly, running his hands through George’s thick dark strands of hair. His gentle hands contrasted greatly with the frantic hammering of his heart.
“Get another candle, Paul.”
George let out another moan, this time slightly more distressed, and Ringo’s arms tightened around his shoulders protectively.
“It’s okay, it’s alright George, don’t worry…”
“Paul, get the fucking candle!” John snapped, “PAUL!”
But Paul himself seemed to be caught inside some trance-like state. In fact he didn't seem to be able to hear John at all; he was just staring at George with fraught determination. 200 hours of terror shone out of those wide hazel sockets. 200 hours of sleepless dread. And now George was waking up. For all of them it felt like they were rising out of some merciless pit or grave. A sprinkling of hope was re-entering their blood streams, that shallow feeling of emptiness in their stomachs finally beginning to feel in some way complete again.
"Wherami?"
"You're with us." Ringo spoke softly, "In this house still, but you've been asleep for… ages."
"Days." John corrected.
And then George's hand grasped needfully onto Ringo's t-shirt, and the drummer felt a surge of victoriousness. But the young guitarist's eyes still wouldn't open. Ringo ran his finger over the top of George's eyelid, wondering whether that was helping or was just very annoying. And eventually, he began to feel the gentle whisks of George's eyelashes sweeping across his finger tips, his eyes fluttering slowly…. slowly…. Ringo grit his teeth in desperate impatience… slowly… and then his eyes those dark, shiny brown eyes were lightening the surroundings once again.
Ringo felt himself smile, as their eyes locked onto each other once again. George's were swimming with confusion, while Ringo's felt his own turn hot with tears.
"Ritch?" the guitarist croaked
George raised a slender, shaking finger, softly brushing a stray tear from below Ringo's eye.
"What's the matter?"
Did George even know how long he'd been stuck inside his coma? Did he know how he'd caused their worlds to shatter and freeze with his own immobile state? Did he realise how he'd been force-fed, manoeuvred, re-clothed and cried over for the last week or so?
"Nothing." Ringo whispered, wrapping his fingers around George's comforting touch. He didn't feel words could describe to George what had happened to him. "M'fine."
"Let 'im lie down Ringo."
"Why's it dark?" George mumbled. Even now, his eyes were drooping, as though exhaustion was already roping him back from their clutches.
"Don't worry about it," Ringo whispered. He closed his hands either side of George's pointed cheeks, pressing kisses to the lips that had blessed him with speech once more. "Please keep talking…"
A voice in the back of Ringo's mind was scolding himself. Selfish, selfish, selfish. George was confused. And for Ringo's own desire, he wouldn't provide George with any explanation, preferring just to feel his lips and hear his voice instead. Selfish, selfish.
"Why? What's goin' on Ritch?" George whined weakly, his eyes trailing around the circle of watchful, tearful faces.
John grinned. Ringo was impressed at how he managed to really, but then, John was the strong type. "Well, I wouldn't let Ringo go touching you up again. If THIS is the result of it." he taunted.
They ignored him.
"Do you want some food?" Ringo offered, pushing the hair from George's eyes, "Do you want to… go downstairs… or… can we… I mean, shall we…"
"I'm jus' still really tired."
"Don't go to sleep, George." Paul cautioned darkly. His voice was calm and assertive… yet his eyes swam with a pain quite different.
"Well… we can have a shower?" Ringo pleaded, "It might wake you up. Or we can… John? What can we do?"
"Ringo, he doesn't know what the fuck's going on."
"What??" George whined, fingers still clutching continually to the front of Ringo's shirt.
And again, Ringo felt the betrayal of hot tears fill the inside of his eyes. George didn't fail to notice this, and Ringo felt the guilty pang of selfishness once again, when George's face flinched into fear and apprehension.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, please, just…"
"Ritch, I don't understand…"
"You've just.. you've been asleep for… well we couldn't wake you up George… not for ages. But it's okay, it's fine now…"
"What'dye mean? How long?"
"I don't know exactly."
"About a week."
"No John, not that long…"
"Yeah, a week or longer."
"No," Ringo assured, "A few days maybe."
"I've been counting!" John insisted, but Ringo's sharp glare silenced him.
"George DON'T!" Paul croaked suddenly.
Ringo shot down to look at the figure in his arms. And George was already slipping from consciousness, his eyes drooping shut, grip slackening on Ringo's shirt.
"No, stay awake George…" He pleaded desperately
"'m sorry…" the younger moaned, "'m trying."
"Hey, come on," Ringo coaxed.
He pulled George into more of a sitting position, forcing his body to hold itself up. John shuffled down the bed, reaching George's legs.
"We should 'ave a look at his ankle." he muttered seriously.
"No!" George begged. "Jus' leave it, I'm gonna stay awake, I promise."
Ringo placed another kiss to George's cheek, and another, unable to keep himself off him. George barely reacted at all, he was watching John, wary of John's hands that wavered just beside George's bandaged flesh.
"Don't John." he whined softly. Another kiss landed at the side of his face, and George blinked a couple of times, momentarily confused, before turning to Ringo with his tired, slightly perturbed eyes. "'m sorry…" he whispered.
He linked his arms around the drummers neck, pulling himself closer into Ringo's neck and chest.
"No, I'm sorry." Ringo whispered, desperately trying to keep the waver from his voice that rested inside tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to help you. I don't… tell me what I can do to help you."
There was a silence for a few moments. George stared determinedly into Ringo's chest, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, his head jumbled with disjointed thoughts of waking up, sleeping, of the confusing things that John and Ringo had said to him. Ringo just held tightly to him, the way he had been for all these hopeless hours.
After a while George spoke. And his voice was weak. Maybe afraid even, though Ringo filched to think of it that way.
"Please don't let me go to sleep. Please."
And of course, nobody knew what to say. What COULD they say? They didn't want him to sleep either; they didn't want to go through the pain or the pressure, nor any part of that fear again. And not normal fear… it was a fear that far outweighed being chased by murderous psychos or finding dead bodies in the garage. Fear of losing George was like nothing Ringo, nor either of the others had experienced. Worse than having ones own life flash before their eyes, was having George's.
But what could they possibly do? He couldn't stay awake forever. Judging by his current state, he couldn't stay awake for another few minutes. They'd just got him back and already he was being pulled by a rope from their desperate, loving embraces. What if the next time sleep took him, it would be for even longer? What if it was for longer, then longer still, and their lives became a never-ending sequence of entrapment inside some sinister house of refuge, waiting for their few seconds of speech and eye contact with their closest friend?
* * * * *
"You can sleep." Ringo whispered soothingly.
Some time had passed. Probably an hour or so. It made no difference really; the room was dark at day or night. They were constantly enveloped inside some twisted dystopia.
"I'll wake you up." He assured George, "I'll always wake you up."
"What if you can't?"
"We will. If you need to sleep…. I won't… I won't keep you awake, not just for my sake."
"No, for my sake." George whispered, "I don't want to die."
"You won't. Come on, don't be silly. You're just tired. It's… it's this stupid illness thing."
"S'not." George croaked. His eyes were falling shut, his body flopping against Ringo's chest. It took all his energy to lift his head, to lock his eyes on Ringo's once more. "Please keep me awake."
"I…."
Ringo felt his heart sink, his throat grow dry and tight, his toes curl with the helplessness, selfishness, hopelessness. He felt the wicked tears engulf beneath his eyelids once again, stroking uselessly George's hair.
"I don't know how to, George."
His voice cracked, he felt himself surrendering to the tears.
"I won't let anything happen to you." he promised weakly. "I wouldn't."
"We can talk." George suggested, but his voice was faint with exhaustion.
The drummer nodded. "What do you want to talk about?"
He swiped at the fire-hot tears that sparkled across his cheeks.
"Talk about when we go home."
George's body was becoming heavier.
Ringo pushed him upwards, jerking him into higher consciousness.
"You start." he coaxed desperately.
There was no reply. George slumped back against Ringo's body, and his arms hung limply across his lap and the mattress.
"George…" Paul urged through gritted teeth.
"Let 'im sleep Paul." John mumbled. "We can't keep him awake."
"He's sweating." Ringo cried miserably.
"We're all sweatin'. It's hot in here."
"No…" Ringo wept
"Yeah. You're hot, aren't you, Paul?"
And Ringo's heart, if it was possible, sunk even lower, deeper, heavier into the pit of his stomach.
Paul had pulled his knees right up to his chest. His whole body appeared to be shaking… shuddering… or convulsing, with some long-repressed misery.
And he shook his head.
"Paul?" John suddenly frowned. He shuffled up the bed, his hand resting onto Paul's trembling back. "Hey… Paul, look at me…"
"John, DON'T TOUCH ME!" Paul suddenly wailed. "DON'T! Just… just don't! Please!"
"Paul…"
"HE'S NOT GONNA WAKE UP!" the bassist yelled. "JUST FACE IT, HE'S NOT! HE'S NOT GONNA WAKE UP, I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE DOING HERE!!! Fuck this, fuck… fuck this, fuck YOU."
"Paul!"
But it was too late. Paul sprinted from the room. He opened that bedroom door, the one that closed them in on their own united universe and kept them safe and protected inside a comfy haven. There was no more optimism in that boy left; every last bit had been sucked out of him… like the lights in the house, like the energy in George, like the breaths that they'd become so used to sharing. Every trait that held them strong was fading, and now to prove that, John and Ringo sat there motionless, expressionless, and one day emotionless. They'd become zombies like those infested with disease.
George's fingers closed around Ringo's, and Ringo squeezed back.
"I love you George Harrison."
He didn't reply.
Ringo couldn't even do George the justice of keeping him awake.
Why should George bother reply anything to him?
Fuck this, fuck this. Fuck you. Fuck you Ringo Starr.
Time/Location: June 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Bad language, uncomfortable themes.
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?
They’d tried singing and nudging, begging and crying, even punching and slapping to make him wake… and still nothing.
Authors Notes: I'll warn you now that very little happens here. Although plot developments are coming. Agh.
It had been in Hamburg when he'd first met George. He'd seen him around Liverpool before then, but never paid any notice; George had just been another one of the lads in another one of the bands, strutting around with nutty Lennon and the other good-looking lad. But in Hamburg, Ringo had started chatting with the guys more. And he remembered now, looking back, George had told him early on that he was only seventeen-years-old. He hadn't sounded embarrassed, just a bit naughty and devious… he wasn't supposed to be there. He was the youngest person in all of Hamburg, it seemed. It was pretty cool really. He made jokes about his age in those days, like reading comic books instead of books. Ringo had felt a LOT older than George back then. Hell, he'd even felt a lot older than John, although he wasn't really. And yet something about George completely charmed him. Something about George charmed everybody, but Ringo particularly liked making him laugh. It was John that people usually tried to impress… but Ringo had never felt that with John; they'd always been easy-going with each other… a simple relationship, equals. With George, Ringo had always felt an overpowering surge of gratification and self-satisfaction when he made George laugh. And even though George was just "the kid" or whatever, Ringo loved hanging out with him. And George made him laugh, of course, with his outrageous comments and clueless inappropriateness. Had it really been that early since he'd fallen for him? Or had it been later on?
When they moved into that flat together, John had always taken the piss out of George's dressing gown. It was sort of black silk… Ringo recalled it being bought by George's mother, which was probably half of John's problem. But John tore him to shreds about the damn thing, and even then, George continued to wear it every day just to spite him. Ringo never said anything, but he loved George in that dressing gown. And when they'd all ridden that boat down that river, and none of them knew how to row until in the end they all just gave up. All except for George, who kept trying to steer the thing all on his own, and in the end he just pushed it round in circles while the other three just sat there laughing there heads off at him. And he didn't even care, he just kept on going. And chucked dirty bits of leaves at them if he was feeling really frustrated.
Ringo remembered when the four of them had got in an argument with some band from Manchester. The leader was an arsehole who picked a fight with them about their hair, and John had started blowing the guy out of the water with all his quick-witted sarcasm. Ringo had just sat there laughing, while Paul had just sort of turned away and pretended he was somewhere else entirely. And then after about half an hour of this, the guy, at his lowest, started on Paul even though Paul wasn't involved in the affair at all. George headbutted him. End of discussion.
Of course, it wasn't REALLY end of discussion cos they'd been chased out of the place after that, but George had been very pleased with himself, and Ringo would never forget that triumphant smile and proud gleam in his eye when John praised him. Brian had been furious but it didn't matter to George. Ringo wished his own praise would get the same response out of George as John's did.
How great those days had been, and how they'd taken it for granted. When they'd all tried on disguises and ran around London together in fake moustaches and beards. They knew it was a risk, but they did it anyway, and they ended up losing George and everyone panicked. And when they found him, he was lurking about in some auction place, cos he "wanted to see how it all turned out". And then Paul bid on some fucking grandfather clock and they had to make another run for it. And the days when they used to do a pre-lash and end up getting so drunk they forgot to even leave the hotel room and attend the nightmare of a dinner-do. They ended up spending the whole night with each others company instead, which they all knew deep down was better than parties or sex, right up till somebody threw up on somebody else's lap.
How great when they could drink without losing their minds, run away from fans not terrorists, be closeted inside hotel rooms and not strange houses with dead people in the garage. How great when they could get high with each other, laugh till their tummies hurt at absolutely nothing, piss each other off without worrying about backlash. When they could complain about jellybean attacks rather than crowbar attacks. When they rode a limo instead of an ambulance, and when an unconscious George could only mean alcohol abuse, and not infection or death. When Ringo could guarantee waking up to George's lopsided smile and shining eyes every morning… without wandering when it would all slip away.
But now, Ringo didn't know what time it was. He didn't even know how many days had passed. They’d all just sat in that room for hours and hours and hours… so many hours. And the whole time they’d been enfolded in pitch blackness. John had eventually bought up some candles, which sent little flickers of light firing into the air, and made their shadows huge and magnificent on the wall. But none of the felt magnificent.
Through all these hours they’d nibbled on bread, but none of them could swallow all that well. They’d barely said a word to each other, barely moved even. Ringo didn't know whether or not he’d even slept. Everything had just been numbing sameness. Just holding and rocking George’s body in his arms. Cradling his beautiful face, begging for his comforting voice. Ringo would do anything to look into those beautiful dark eyes once more.
And as he held George in his arms, he knew he had no right to. He was like the murderer who then called the ambulance. It was his fault, and his fault entirely, that George was in this position. And it hadn’t just been one mistake, no. But thousands. Many selfish, foolish mistakes - results of Ringo’s obsessive, selfish love; he never even looked at the bigger picture. He never thought about George; he just fed his own uncontrollable desire.
When the dog bit George’s ankle, Ringo didn't get help, because he wanted to touch George and have him to himself. HE wanted to look after him. When they had to run, Ringo didn't help George, he made him run on a dodgy ankle - made him break it. When George showed the first signs of temperature, Ringo only used it as an excuse to hold and nurture him. Fuck, he’d USED that illness for his own queer advances… advances George NEVER wanted to begin with. When George got drunk, Ringo voluntarily climbed into bed with him, and let George make advances he didn't want to make. He exploited George’s vulnerability; made George reliant and needy for him. It was like John said… Ringo made George hand himself unwillingly over to Ringo’s lust, just for his own protection. And George had confided in Ringo… his morbid sense of doom… and Ringo had kept it to himself, just so he could feel special.
And now look.
George lay unconscious across Ringo’s lap, where he’d laid for days now. They’d pushed liquefied bread into his mouth. They’d tried singing and nudging, begging and crying, even punching and slapping to make him wake… and still nothing. George was like the terrible patients of ill-health who Ringo saw when he was in hospital. He was one of the people bound to a hospital bed for eternity, with tubes linking to their stomachs and doctors changing their clothes.
Except George didn't have tubes or doctors.
He had friends. Useless fucking friends, who’d done nothing but wronged him or pushed him aside. And now they sat at his side, even more useless than ever. They were all so selfish that none of them had even wanted to push the food into his mouth, they were afraid of doing it wrong, they all said it felt cruel. They argued over who had to do it, even though it was the thing keeping George alive. In the end John had done it… but begrudgingly. Ringo couldn’t even offer George that.
It could have been three days, it could have been thirty. He just didn't know.
But Ringo did know when George was going to come around, even before he did.
The drummer woke with a start. Had he been sleeping? Or had he just been wrapped in a dazed blackout? It didn't matter, what mattered was the figure he was cradling unfailingly in his arms.
“George?” He whispered suddenly.
His heart was pounding, seemingly without reason to… his lips had become dry, his throat clogged.
“George??”
“Mmm…”
For a moment, Ringo thought he was dreaming. His whole blood seemed to freeze up, his heart abruptly congested. It was like a door opening after a year of isolation. George made a noise.
“GEORGE???”
Ringo felt his body shiver, his breathing become harder as he felt George’s shoulders tense inside his arms… George’s body gently moving.
“JOHN! PAUL! WAKE UP!”
“Huh? What is it?!”, they woke with a start.
“George??”
It didn't take longer than a second before his other two bandmates had crawled to the head of the bed, their hands gripping George’s arms and shoulders, or wherever they could reach, their faces placed close to his, probing and shaking.
“Hhmmrumm…”
“Oh, thank fuck.” John groaned
“George , come on…” Ringo coaxed, “Come back, open your eyes…”
“Mmm…” the younger moaned weakly
And then Ringo felt his head fall dizzy and weak with elation, as George’s fingers began to scratch and flail feebly at his pyjama leg, clutching the material between his fingers. His eyes still remained heavily lidded shut, his head hanging limply from Ringo’s arm. The drummer guided George into a careful sitting position, with John lightly holding George’s shoulders to keep him tumbling forwards.
“Rr… rritch?” George’s mumbled. His voice was barely audible, and yet every syllable was heavenly. The sharp intake of breath that echoed around their four closely pressed bodies indicated the others felt the same.
“It’s okay,” Ringo encouraged softly. So much of him was aching to shake George, impatience getting the better of him, DESPERATE to look into those eyes again. But now George’s arm moved; his elbow bending as he gripped tightly to the duvet cover below him. Every movement was like a gracious gift from somewhere above.
John pulled the candle up, illuminating George’s face in a soft, orange glow which cast hard shadows beneath his cheekbones. Ringo nudged him gently, urgent to hear that voice, to feel that movement again.
“’Ey, come on George.” John enticed softly.
“Icanwherami…”
“It’s okay,”
“Open your eyes, George, come on…”
“Yeah, we’re all here,” Ringo assured, “We’re all here, can you hear us?”
“mmm…”
George squeezed harder at the fabric in his hands; one being the duvet cover and the other being John’s sleeve. His head flayed sideways slightly, nuzzling against Ringo’s chest. He seemed to be struggling to open his eyes, and probably growing more alarmed as a result. Ringo hushed him softly, running his hands through George’s thick dark strands of hair. His gentle hands contrasted greatly with the frantic hammering of his heart.
“Get another candle, Paul.”
George let out another moan, this time slightly more distressed, and Ringo’s arms tightened around his shoulders protectively.
“It’s okay, it’s alright George, don’t worry…”
“Paul, get the fucking candle!” John snapped, “PAUL!”
But Paul himself seemed to be caught inside some trance-like state. In fact he didn't seem to be able to hear John at all; he was just staring at George with fraught determination. 200 hours of terror shone out of those wide hazel sockets. 200 hours of sleepless dread. And now George was waking up. For all of them it felt like they were rising out of some merciless pit or grave. A sprinkling of hope was re-entering their blood streams, that shallow feeling of emptiness in their stomachs finally beginning to feel in some way complete again.
"Wherami?"
"You're with us." Ringo spoke softly, "In this house still, but you've been asleep for… ages."
"Days." John corrected.
And then George's hand grasped needfully onto Ringo's t-shirt, and the drummer felt a surge of victoriousness. But the young guitarist's eyes still wouldn't open. Ringo ran his finger over the top of George's eyelid, wondering whether that was helping or was just very annoying. And eventually, he began to feel the gentle whisks of George's eyelashes sweeping across his finger tips, his eyes fluttering slowly…. slowly…. Ringo grit his teeth in desperate impatience… slowly… and then his eyes those dark, shiny brown eyes were lightening the surroundings once again.
Ringo felt himself smile, as their eyes locked onto each other once again. George's were swimming with confusion, while Ringo's felt his own turn hot with tears.
"Ritch?" the guitarist croaked
George raised a slender, shaking finger, softly brushing a stray tear from below Ringo's eye.
"What's the matter?"
Did George even know how long he'd been stuck inside his coma? Did he know how he'd caused their worlds to shatter and freeze with his own immobile state? Did he realise how he'd been force-fed, manoeuvred, re-clothed and cried over for the last week or so?
"Nothing." Ringo whispered, wrapping his fingers around George's comforting touch. He didn't feel words could describe to George what had happened to him. "M'fine."
"Let 'im lie down Ringo."
"Why's it dark?" George mumbled. Even now, his eyes were drooping, as though exhaustion was already roping him back from their clutches.
"Don't worry about it," Ringo whispered. He closed his hands either side of George's pointed cheeks, pressing kisses to the lips that had blessed him with speech once more. "Please keep talking…"
A voice in the back of Ringo's mind was scolding himself. Selfish, selfish, selfish. George was confused. And for Ringo's own desire, he wouldn't provide George with any explanation, preferring just to feel his lips and hear his voice instead. Selfish, selfish.
"Why? What's goin' on Ritch?" George whined weakly, his eyes trailing around the circle of watchful, tearful faces.
John grinned. Ringo was impressed at how he managed to really, but then, John was the strong type. "Well, I wouldn't let Ringo go touching you up again. If THIS is the result of it." he taunted.
They ignored him.
"Do you want some food?" Ringo offered, pushing the hair from George's eyes, "Do you want to… go downstairs… or… can we… I mean, shall we…"
"I'm jus' still really tired."
"Don't go to sleep, George." Paul cautioned darkly. His voice was calm and assertive… yet his eyes swam with a pain quite different.
"Well… we can have a shower?" Ringo pleaded, "It might wake you up. Or we can… John? What can we do?"
"Ringo, he doesn't know what the fuck's going on."
"What??" George whined, fingers still clutching continually to the front of Ringo's shirt.
And again, Ringo felt the betrayal of hot tears fill the inside of his eyes. George didn't fail to notice this, and Ringo felt the guilty pang of selfishness once again, when George's face flinched into fear and apprehension.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, please, just…"
"Ritch, I don't understand…"
"You've just.. you've been asleep for… well we couldn't wake you up George… not for ages. But it's okay, it's fine now…"
"What'dye mean? How long?"
"I don't know exactly."
"About a week."
"No John, not that long…"
"Yeah, a week or longer."
"No," Ringo assured, "A few days maybe."
"I've been counting!" John insisted, but Ringo's sharp glare silenced him.
"George DON'T!" Paul croaked suddenly.
Ringo shot down to look at the figure in his arms. And George was already slipping from consciousness, his eyes drooping shut, grip slackening on Ringo's shirt.
"No, stay awake George…" He pleaded desperately
"'m sorry…" the younger moaned, "'m trying."
"Hey, come on," Ringo coaxed.
He pulled George into more of a sitting position, forcing his body to hold itself up. John shuffled down the bed, reaching George's legs.
"We should 'ave a look at his ankle." he muttered seriously.
"No!" George begged. "Jus' leave it, I'm gonna stay awake, I promise."
Ringo placed another kiss to George's cheek, and another, unable to keep himself off him. George barely reacted at all, he was watching John, wary of John's hands that wavered just beside George's bandaged flesh.
"Don't John." he whined softly. Another kiss landed at the side of his face, and George blinked a couple of times, momentarily confused, before turning to Ringo with his tired, slightly perturbed eyes. "'m sorry…" he whispered.
He linked his arms around the drummers neck, pulling himself closer into Ringo's neck and chest.
"No, I'm sorry." Ringo whispered, desperately trying to keep the waver from his voice that rested inside tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to help you. I don't… tell me what I can do to help you."
There was a silence for a few moments. George stared determinedly into Ringo's chest, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, his head jumbled with disjointed thoughts of waking up, sleeping, of the confusing things that John and Ringo had said to him. Ringo just held tightly to him, the way he had been for all these hopeless hours.
After a while George spoke. And his voice was weak. Maybe afraid even, though Ringo filched to think of it that way.
"Please don't let me go to sleep. Please."
And of course, nobody knew what to say. What COULD they say? They didn't want him to sleep either; they didn't want to go through the pain or the pressure, nor any part of that fear again. And not normal fear… it was a fear that far outweighed being chased by murderous psychos or finding dead bodies in the garage. Fear of losing George was like nothing Ringo, nor either of the others had experienced. Worse than having ones own life flash before their eyes, was having George's.
But what could they possibly do? He couldn't stay awake forever. Judging by his current state, he couldn't stay awake for another few minutes. They'd just got him back and already he was being pulled by a rope from their desperate, loving embraces. What if the next time sleep took him, it would be for even longer? What if it was for longer, then longer still, and their lives became a never-ending sequence of entrapment inside some sinister house of refuge, waiting for their few seconds of speech and eye contact with their closest friend?
* * * * *
"You can sleep." Ringo whispered soothingly.
Some time had passed. Probably an hour or so. It made no difference really; the room was dark at day or night. They were constantly enveloped inside some twisted dystopia.
"I'll wake you up." He assured George, "I'll always wake you up."
"What if you can't?"
"We will. If you need to sleep…. I won't… I won't keep you awake, not just for my sake."
"No, for my sake." George whispered, "I don't want to die."
"You won't. Come on, don't be silly. You're just tired. It's… it's this stupid illness thing."
"S'not." George croaked. His eyes were falling shut, his body flopping against Ringo's chest. It took all his energy to lift his head, to lock his eyes on Ringo's once more. "Please keep me awake."
"I…."
Ringo felt his heart sink, his throat grow dry and tight, his toes curl with the helplessness, selfishness, hopelessness. He felt the wicked tears engulf beneath his eyelids once again, stroking uselessly George's hair.
"I don't know how to, George."
His voice cracked, he felt himself surrendering to the tears.
"I won't let anything happen to you." he promised weakly. "I wouldn't."
"We can talk." George suggested, but his voice was faint with exhaustion.
The drummer nodded. "What do you want to talk about?"
He swiped at the fire-hot tears that sparkled across his cheeks.
"Talk about when we go home."
George's body was becoming heavier.
Ringo pushed him upwards, jerking him into higher consciousness.
"You start." he coaxed desperately.
There was no reply. George slumped back against Ringo's body, and his arms hung limply across his lap and the mattress.
"George…" Paul urged through gritted teeth.
"Let 'im sleep Paul." John mumbled. "We can't keep him awake."
"He's sweating." Ringo cried miserably.
"We're all sweatin'. It's hot in here."
"No…" Ringo wept
"Yeah. You're hot, aren't you, Paul?"
And Ringo's heart, if it was possible, sunk even lower, deeper, heavier into the pit of his stomach.
Paul had pulled his knees right up to his chest. His whole body appeared to be shaking… shuddering… or convulsing, with some long-repressed misery.
And he shook his head.
"Paul?" John suddenly frowned. He shuffled up the bed, his hand resting onto Paul's trembling back. "Hey… Paul, look at me…"
"John, DON'T TOUCH ME!" Paul suddenly wailed. "DON'T! Just… just don't! Please!"
"Paul…"
"HE'S NOT GONNA WAKE UP!" the bassist yelled. "JUST FACE IT, HE'S NOT! HE'S NOT GONNA WAKE UP, I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE'RE DOING HERE!!! Fuck this, fuck… fuck this, fuck YOU."
"Paul!"
But it was too late. Paul sprinted from the room. He opened that bedroom door, the one that closed them in on their own united universe and kept them safe and protected inside a comfy haven. There was no more optimism in that boy left; every last bit had been sucked out of him… like the lights in the house, like the energy in George, like the breaths that they'd become so used to sharing. Every trait that held them strong was fading, and now to prove that, John and Ringo sat there motionless, expressionless, and one day emotionless. They'd become zombies like those infested with disease.
George's fingers closed around Ringo's, and Ringo squeezed back.
"I love you George Harrison."
He didn't reply.
Ringo couldn't even do George the justice of keeping him awake.
Why should George bother reply anything to him?
Fuck this, fuck this. Fuck you. Fuck you Ringo Starr.