Chapter Four: In Which George and Ringo Bond (sort of)
SO. I DECIDED I NEED A BETA FOR THIS STORY. Someone please help me, because I suck at writing. :D
Anyway, with that said:
Title: Forgetting to Remember
Author: Spirit414
Pairing: George/Ringo, John/Paul
Summary: When Ringo loses his memory in an accident, it's up to John, Paul, and George to get it back.
Author's Notes: So this was a quick update. School is over and I have NOTHING to do at all, so I'll be writing a lot. :D So enjoy this my lovely readers. I once again thank you for all the wonderful support I've gotten for this story. :)
Disclaimer: What you are about to read is a work of fiction, and should be taken as such. I do not own the Beatles and never claimed to
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“Ringo!”
George nearly tripped over the drummer on his way out, not having realized that he was sitting right outside the door.
“Hi,” he answered softly, glancing up at George before fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette and a package of matches. Well at least the new Richard Starkey still liked to smoke.
“Mind if I sit down then?” George asked, waiting for Ringo’s nod of affirmation before settling himself down beside the drummer. “So, what are you doing out here?”
Ringo stared at him for a brief moment before stretching his arm around George’s shoulders. For a heart stopping second, George thought that Ringo had put his arm around him because he wanted to.
Well, until the moment was over, and Ringo’s arm was back at his side, this time with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “This was on your back,” he said, handing the wad of paper to George.
Feeling his face flush at the stupid sign, George made a mental note to personally kill John Lennon when the opportunity presented itself. “Thanks,” he murmured, tossing the paper aside and trying to dispel the disappointment he felt by taking several breaths.
“Things have settled down in there?” Ringo jerked his thumb in the direction of the door, and George’s fear was confirmed; Ringo had heard everything they had yelled at each other.
George sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and turning his head to look at his friend, “So you heard everything.”
“Just about.”
“Well…” George trailed off, treading on the topic carefully; he knew Regular Ringo would have been extremely hurt and angered at the idea of replacing him but never say it. He knew that Ringo had never gotten over the time George Martin had replaced him, but the drummer was insecure about his position in the band as it was, hearing what John and Paul had said would have devastated him.
“They didn’t mean it, the two of them,” He said finally, “Paul always says things, but it’s just to make himself feel better, he wouldn’t actually go about it you know.”
Ringo shrugged at George’s words, taking a drag on his smoke before speaking, “I’m guessing that was a big deal.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Oh.”
George furrowed his eyebrows, “You mean you don’t care if we replace you?”
“I suppose I do,” the drummer answered, “I mean I know I should, because the bloke who I was before obviously enjoyed being in the band and all, but I don’t even know how to play drums. I just don’t want to cause any problems you know, between the three of you.”
Ringo didn’t care? George found that hard to believe. And after he’d yelled at John and Paul in his defense, Ringo didn’t care.
“Look George,” Ringo said, blue eyes fixed on his shoes, “I do care, honestly, I’m sure I’d be devastated normally…” He trailed off, and George sighed. The drummer was lying. He didn’t care.
“Yeah I get it,” he muttered, reaching over to tug the cigarette from Ringo’s lips and taking a drag. It didn’t seem fair, the way Ringo didn’t even seem to want to make an effort with them. It seemed he’d caused a problem for nothing after all.
Blowing the smoke in careful rings, he glanced over at Ringo who was staring at him with what George could only identify as disbelief.
“What?”
Ringo’s eyes fell on the cigarette between George’s fingers, “It’s just, I happened to be smoking that.”
The realization washed over George in a wave of embarrassment, and he blushed furiously, “Sorry.” Apparently he’d slipped up again, forgetting to remember that taking a mate’s fag from his own mouth was crossing that boundary called personal space.
“Sorry,” he muttered again, staring fixatedly at his shoes and stretching out his hand with the smoke in it, “I guess I just forgot.”
Ringo grimaced slightly, “Forgot what?”
George licked his lips, daring to look the drummer in the eyes. Ringo didn’t know about them, he didn’t love George anymore, or rather, he’d forgotten he loved George. The guitarist shook his head, Ringo couldn’t know about them; the very mention that they’d even touched each other suggestively would push him away faster than anything else.
“Nothing,” he said quietly, “I forgot that you don’t like to share, that’s all.” He held out the cigarette again, “Do you want it back then?”
Ringo shook his head, “That’s alright, you can keep it, I’ve got another one somewhere.”
“‘Kay.” George felt the weight press down on his chest and he swallowed thickly. “Well I’m going to go back in then,” he said, dropping the smoke on the ground and crushing it with his heel before standing up, “You’re welcome to come in, I’m sure they feel bad about what happened.”
Ringo dropped his gaze to the ground, “Sure,” he replied, sucking a breath.
George knew that look. That was the very expression that crossed Ringo’s face when he was preparing himself to do something he didn’t want to do. It was the press conference face, the photo shoot face, the ‘Paul’s about to blather on about nothing’ face. George knew Ringo was too polite to say no to his supposed friends, but George didn’t’ have the heart to force him to sit in the studio with all of them if he really didn’t want to.
Maybe he ought to just let the drummer go home and do whatever it was that he did nowadays without George. He opened his mouth to let Ringo off the hook when a sudden thought seemed to hit him in the chest, and he froze.
What if Ringo was going to go be with Mo?
George hadn’t really heard much from or about the bird since Ringo had gone to see that film with her, but just the thought of them together had been festering in the pit of his stomach every night and was closely knotted with the growing ball of anxiety that was constantly pressing down on him. There would be no way George would ever get any sleep tonight, not with the image that was currently burned into his mind of the two of them.
Granted, there was no way George could really prevent them from spending time with each other, but he could prolong the amount of time that they didn’t.
It was selfish, and George openly acknowledged this fact. And he was over it.
Ringo was already pushing open the door to the studio when the guitarist finally found his voice, “Hey Rings, why don’t we go for a drink instead? Then you don’t have to sit there being bored which we play songs at you.
Half of George almost expected the drummer to rebut this statement; to tell George that he loved being in the studio and listening to them play. Unfortunately, Ringo carefully considered this statement; one that may have held a bit too much bitterness for George’s liking, and slowly nodded.
“Alright then,” George said, “there’s a bar down the street from here, not too far, maybe only a few blocks.”
Ringo nodded again and George allowed himself a small smile. Maybe if he just talked to Ringo normally, as friends did, he wouldn’t be so reluctant to hang out with them. George would show Ringo that he was better than Maureen, more worth the drummer’s time.
~~~~~~~
George was drunk.
Well he wasn’t really drunk. Maybe only a little bit. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten this way. All he knew was that somehow one drink had turned into several, and then those several had turned into a few more, and now suddenly he was hiccupping and slurring right in Ringo’s face, unable to control himself into having a decent conversation.
Yeah, George was really worth the drummer’s time.
Surprisingly however, Ringo seemed to be on the slightly drunk side of tipsy, which George found impossible, considering the drummer had nearly as much as George.
Curse George’s twig thin body that could hold about as much liquor as a four year old.
He was currently slumped over the bar, head propped up with one hand and studying Ringo intently, watching as the drummer rolled the glass between his bare fingers and brought it up to his wonderfully full mouth to drain the last of the beer that had been in it. George watched Ringo’s lips pressed to the side of the cup and felt a ripple down his spine, and he licked his own lips subconsciously, his entire being begging him to just claim that mouth with his own lips.
Though somewhere in his muddied brain he knew he shouldn’t, or else Ringo would go away forever, and well, George certainly didn’t want that. Even if he couldn’t have Ringo, he could at least be with him. Which George supposed was better than nothing after all, even if it made his chest ache with emptiness he thought they only talked about in the movies.
“D’you know what time it is?” George slurred, mostly to try and strike up the conversation that had fallen flat within the first fifteen minutes. Maybe that’s why George had buried himself in the drinks.
“Four fifteen,” the drummer answered dully, running a hand through his hair and setting the glass back down on the table. “Listen--”
“You’re bored,” George pointed out, nodding slightly, “you’re bored ‘cause you don’t like me.”
“I’m not bored,” the drummer answered, “I was just going to say it’s getting a bit late and I think we should be getting home soon.”
“Cause you’re bored with me,” George repeated, staring at Ringo with glossy eyes, “But that’s okay you know, because I know you like me somewhere in there.” The guitarist slid off of his chair in an attempt to stand, only to find the floor rushing very quickly up to his face before he landed on the hard wood with a dull thud.
Ringo’s strong hands gripped his arms, and George allowed himself to lean in to the drummer’s embrace, giggling slightly, “Are you alright?” Ringo murmured, and the hot breath ghosting past George’s ear sent another waved down his spine, and suddenly the guitarist felt familiar warmth begin to pool in his stomach.
The drummer’s scent surrounded him, and with every breath George’s trousers became tighter, his skin became hotter, his heart began to beat faster. Even in his intoxicated state, George knew this was very, very bad. He’d been without for nearly a week and a half now, and having Ringo so incredibly close was driving him insane.
“Fine,” he answered, pushing at Ringo’s strong arms and making another attempt to stand on his own, “M’fine.”
He managed to make it to the door, leaning heavily against the wall as Ringo called for a taxi and attempting to fill his head with images other than a naked, sweaty Ringo pounding into him and groaning his name.
It wasn’t working.
“I’m sorry Ritchie,” he babbled once they were driving towards his house, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t be sick all over the car, “I’m sorry you’re bored with me and I’m sorry you hate our music. And I’m sorry that I messed up when we were supposed to be talking because I want you to like me. But now you don’t.” The car jerked suddenly around a corner and George found his head pressed up against Ringo’s shoulder. He figured that maybe he should probably move, but Ringo’s shoulder was so firm and comfortable, and George could only add that to the list of the things he so desperately missed about his friend.
“It’s alright George,” the drummer reassured him, “I do like you.”
“You’re lying,” George mumbled, turning his face so he could take in more of his friend’s scent, “But that’s okay.”
“Oh look,” Ringo said suddenly, “I think we’re here George, at your house.”
George’s eyes were threatening to close, he was just so tired, “Come in with me Ritchie,” he said into Ringo’s shirt and ignoring the throbbing in his pants, “be with me.”
“I can’t George, sorry,” the drummer said, voice oozing with a fake concern that sounded foreign coming from Ringo, “I’ve got other things to do today.”
“Mo,” the guitarist muttered, “that’s what you’re doing today.”
“Not quite, just dinner.” Ringo shifted away from George’s face nuzzling into his shoulder and gently nudged him towards the car door, “I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”
With great difficulty, George managed to unlock and open the car door, stumbling out onto the sidewalk and shutting the door behind him. At least now he knew why he’d allowed himself to drink himself to this state.
Because at least now, when Ringo pushed him away to go be with Maureen, it only hurt half as much.