Chapter Five: In Which George Talks About His Feelings
Title: Forgetting to Remember
Author: Spirit414
Pairing: George/Ringo, John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Ringo loses his memory in an accident, it's up to George, Paul, and John to make sure he gets it back.
Author's Notes: So weeky update here!! MUCH thanks and love to heather_rawriee and captainemerald for beta-ing this for me and helping me make it the best it could be. :D You guys ROCK!! Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter!!
Disclaimer: What you are about to read is strictly fiction, and should be taken as such. As in, I made it all up. I also never claimed to own the Beatles.
Archive
Chapter Five: In Which George Talks About His Feelings
Watching a film together to try and become better friends with Ringo would have been a good idea, had the drummer not gone and ruined the whole thing for everyone.
They had done it once or twice before, the whole movie night business, but since they’d started touring and seeing each other every day, there became a need for “personal time” (a seemingly foreign thing to the four of them) where they exited the plane and went their separate ways for a day or two before meeting up at the studio to do it all again.
Paul had said eight o’clock. Eight was when they were supposed to get to the bassist’s flat and that’s when they’d start watching.
So when eight fifteen rolled around, the only thought that was running through George’s mind had something to do with that certain drummer and why the hell he wasn’t here already. It wasn’t like him to be late.
“It’s not like him to be late you know,” George said to no one in particular, still nursing the same drink he’d opened since arriving, “I wonder if something’s happened.”
“He’s…probably on his way,” Paul said, glancing at the clock, “maybe he’s lost again.”
“Or maybe he’s ditched us,” John chimed in with a grimace, “couldn’t stand the sight of us anymore so the lad decided to go and stand us up.”
George frowned, “Don’t say that,” he muttered quietly, “Ringo wouldn’t do that.” But the tiny voice in the back of George’s head told him otherwise, that he didn’t know what Ringo would do and wouldn’t do anymore. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, maybe Ringo had decided that his friends finally weren’t worth his time.
“I’m sure he’s coming,” Paul said again, but this time it seemed more for himself than to reassure George.
“Why don’t we just-” The sound of the doorbell cut off John’s sentence, and George looked sharply up at it, then to Paul, his stomach fluttering in that way it always had done when he’d first realized he had feelings for the drummer. Why was he so nervous? It was only Ringo, the same Ringo he’d known for two whole years.
The Ringo he now needed to impress enough so that he’d like George again, laugh when he said something funny or glance at him out of the corner of his eye with that grin that made George’s heart skip a beat. This was George’s second-well, fourth chance. Because maybe if George couldn’t get Ringo’s memory back, the least he could do was show him that he wasn’t some annoying kid who was trying too hard.
“Well don’t everyone just jump to answer it all at once,” John’s nasally voice cut in dryly, and he heaved himself out of the chair he’d been occupying to unlock the door and open it.
A strangely feminine voice cut through the silence that had penetrated the room, and George dared to glance around John’s form to get at glimpse of his friend in the doorway. His breath caught in his throat and George could feel his heart nearly stop in his chest, but it wasn’t Ringo’s smile that triggered it.
Walking through Paul’s doorway into his living room was Ringo, with none other than Maureen Cox glued to his arm.
“Hi George,” she said with a smile. A perfectly genuine, harmless smile that made George’s skin crawl at the sight of it.
George stared. How was it that she thought she was allowed to barge in here during their time together and smile at him and think that everything was just all fine? And even more so, why did Ringo think it was okay to simply let her intrude? He felt his fists clench around the bottle he was holding and gritted his teeth, not trusting himself to greet the two of them with anything but a string of carefully chosen curse words.
“George, why don’t you get them some drinks? Do you want some drinks? George will get you some.” Paul’s voice cut through his thoughts and George remembered to breathe, standing up to go into the kitchen with panic beginning to flood his chest.
Everything was ruined. Everything. George wouldn’t get to talk to Ringo like he’d wanted to, because bloody Mo was going to be in his way. George wouldn’t get to sit next to Ringo like he’d planned because Ringo always liked to sit by the armrest and now bloody Mo was going to be next to him. George wasn’t going to be able to do any of the things he’d planned on doing or talking about with Ringo tonight because bloody Mo was going to be there!
Slamming the bottle he’d finally drained in the recycling, George jerked open the refrigerator door to snatch three more bottles. One for him, one for Ringo, and one for fucking Mo.
“Easy there, son, I don’t remember Paul’s fridge being the one walking through that doorway attached to your poofy husband’s arm.”
John. Gritting his teeth again, George turned to see John leaning against the doorframe with a mildly amused expression. “You better piss off with the comments John.”
“Hostility was never a good look for you,” he cocked his head to the side, “I’m not happy about this either, but all I’m saying is that you better calm down before you go back in there. You wouldn’t want to say something you’ll regret.”
George stared blankly at the rhythm guitarist, wondering when John had decided to make any of this his business. It wasn’t as if John were Mr. Anger Management over there; he was in no place to be giving advice about calming down or anything of the sort.
Shoving past his friend, George couldn’t help but feel increasingly restless. This wasn’t John’s fault, and it wasn’t Paul’s fault, and it wasn’t Ringo’s fault, and as much as he hated to admit it, it wasn’t Mo’s fault either. She didn’t know about the two of them, she didn’t know she was intruding, (uninvited, if George was going to be specific here), on something that was planned especially for the four of them, and the four of them only.
But that’s what the problem was. George had no one to blame, and it was eating at him. The only one he could blame was himself, for not making Ringo feel comfortable enough for him to be able to come by himself. And George’s little drunk escapade with him the other day did nothing to help that matter.
He handed the drinks to the two of them sitting on the couch, carefully trying not to notice the way Ringo’s arm was around Maureen’s shoulders almost possessively and settled back in his chair.
“Well, I guess we’d better start then,” Paul said tentatively, switching on the telly to the film, which had already been on for nearly twenty minutes.
Of course George knew that it might have been awkward had it just been Ringo, but Maureen seemed to make the tension one hundred times worse. They couldn’t make the same jokes as before, couldn’t act like themselves around a woman. It was driving George mad, the way they were simply sitting there and saying nothing; and he glowered from his chair, focusing his anger at the telly and chugging his lager as if his life depended on it.
If comments were said, George didn’t register them; he avoided looking at Ringo and the others unless he absolutely had to and nodding politely if something was directed at him. He didn’t want to see the looks on John and Paul’s faces, didn’t want to see their concern at how fast he was drinking. George only wanted to quell the frustration and disappointment he felt every time he even glanced in their general direction.
And suddenly the two hours had passed and the movie was over. George blinked, grunting a goodbye at Ringo and Maureen as they headed out the door. Thoughts were still swirling around in his head, and George suddenly felt very empty without Ringo’s presence in the room. He stared at the wall in front of him resolutely, realizing another chance with Ringo was now wasted.
Thanks a lot Mo.
“George?” It was Paul’s gentle voice that broke through the haze in his mind and George looked up, squinting at the bassist across the room.
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go home?”
George managed to stand up from his chair, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to watch the room spin in front of his eyes, “I guess,” he muttered, standing up to head for the door.
“I’d be careful with the drinks George;” John said from the couch, “twice in three days really isn’t good for your health after all.”
The guitarist whirled around, jabbing a finger in what he hoped was John’s direction, “All you do is criticize me,” he ground out, “so piss the hell off John.”
“I was just--”
“You’re so…so condescending all the fucking time you know, I’m so sick of it.” Ringo must have told the two of them what had happened when they’d left the studio the other day. Great. Now they both knew how incredibly pathetic he was.
He felt a hand close around his and looked up to see Paul tug him gently towards his bedroom. George fell into step behind him, feeling worse with every second that passed. Why had he let himself do this again? If anything, it just amplified his feelings, causing them to swell and wash over him in waves of hurt.
“Paul,” he mumbled, allowing the bassist to push him down on the bed, on which he gratefully fell back on, groaning with the swimming in his head, “What are we doing.”
“I think I fancy a chat,” Paul answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and raising a much too perfect eyebrow at his friend, “now come on Geo, tell Uncle Paulie what’s going on.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t be daft,” he said, poking George in the side, “you think I don’t know when something’s wrong with you? Why’d you do this to yourself twice in a row?”
George felt a wave of sadness hit him and he shuddered, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to burst from his throat. He didn’t understand why he was being so reluctant with Paul, his best mate since he was a kid, someone he could tell anything. The words that had been swirling around in his head for days pressed down on him again, and George finally opened the dam.
“I miss him,” he whispered, taking in a shaky breath, “I just want the emptiness to go away.”
Paul nodded, as if he’d already known what the guitarist was going to say, “I know,” he murmured, “But It’ll be alright George, you’ll see.”
“No,” George muttered, “no it won’t. He…he doesn’t even like me Paul. Not anymore. Not after Maureen’s gone and snatched him away before I even had a chance.” Sitting up, he looked at the bassist with hazy eyes, feeling the tears well up in them and swiping his arm across his face. “He’ll fall in love with her and forget all about me. Even more than he already has.”
“C’mon Geo,” Paul reached out and placed his hand on George’s back reassuringly, “he’ll get his memory back and then he’ll come running right back into your arms. Just wait.”
The other thought that had been haunting George since the beginning of this mess pushed its way to the front of his mind and George let another shudder wrack his body, slipping down and finding his head in his friend’s lap. George stared at Paul’s clothed stomach, sniffing slightly.
“Paul I…” George trailed off, unable to reveal what had been eating at him for weeks now, afraid of what Paul would think of him.
“What,” Paul murmured, stroking his friend’s hair gently, “what’s troubling you.”
“I did it,” He whispered, feeling the tears leak out of his eyes and making no effort this time to wipe them away, “I caused Ritchie to lose his memory.”
Paul was silent for a moment, “You can’t have,” he answered finally, “unless you went and smacked him over the head with something,” George felt Paul chuckle, obviously finding the image funny, “I don’t think you did that.”
“I made him fall down the stairs,” he muttered brokenly, taking in a trembling breath before continuing, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, “we were having a fight and I wanted to leave,” he said, “and Rings wouldn’t move away from the door so I forced it open, and he fell out and down the stairs. He fell because I opened the door, and that’s why his memory’s gone.”
Paul listened carefully, never ceasing the soothing stroking of George’s hair, “Not your fault,” he said simply, “you can’t let this eat you inside George. You didn’t push Ritch; you didn’t throw him down the stairs. What happened was an accident, and you couldn’t have stopped it if you tried.”
“No!” George swallowed thickly, trying to make himself sound less pathetic, “You don’t understand, when he gets his memory back that’s what he’ll remember. Me opening that bloody door and letting him fall. Then he won’t want me anymore.”
Paul jerked George up from his lap and looked him in the eyes, “That’s the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” he said sharply, “and I think Ringo would be offended if he ever knew you thought that way about him.”
“But--”
“No. Ringo loves you George, I know so, and he’d never toss you aside unless you’ve done something really awful.” Paul paused for a moment, “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
George felt a small smile reach his face, “No, I haven’t.”
Paul grinned, bringing his hand up to briefly brush the side of George’s face affectionately, “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said, “Rings I’m sure knows it was an accident. And when he remembers everything will be fine again.”
George furrowed his eyebrows, “Promise?”
“Yeah, promise.”
“Okay.” There was always something in Paul’s strong, unwavering voice that George simply trusted. Paul could tell him pigs were going to fall from the sky tomorrow and George would believe him.
“Now c’mere,” the bassist said, pulling the younger man into a brief hug, and George inhaled sharply, taking in Paul’s scent, one that always reminded him of everything that was home. It was nearly as comforting as Ringo’s scent, and when George pulled away he had a small, loopy smile on his face. “Ready to go home?”
George bit his lip. If he wasn’t as drunk as he was, he never would have asked, but the hole in his chest that Ringo had ripped out filled George with such emptiness that he ached with the very thought of spending another night alone in his flat.
“Can I stay here?” He mumbled.
Paul paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip slightly. “Sure,” he said finally, seemingly resolutely, “I’ll make a bed for you on the couch then, come on.”
George stood up, following the bassist back into his sitting room where John was staring moodily at the television.
“John,” Paul called, “help me get some blankets would you?”
“For what?”
“For George.”
John stood up slowly, and George sank into the armchair, watching as the rhythm guitarist strode over towards Paul with confusion on his face. He let his eyelids slide shut, the hushed voices becoming fuzzy to his ears.
“But I thought we were going to--”
“Just help me, would you?”
“So he’s just going to take precedence is he? Just like that?”
“John.”
“Paul.”
Paul sighed, deep and heavy, running a hand through his hair, “Having a bit of sympathy would be nice you know,” he said quietly, “he’s hurting John, and all you’re thinking about is your prick.”
“Mm,” John replied, “and your prick. Well your whole body really, naked and underneath me.” John leaned in close, apparently breathing some very dirty thoughts into Paul’s ear by the way the bassist’s face flushed.
“John…” Paul trailed off, leaning into the way John had began trailing kisses down his neck, “just let me set up the couch.”
“Can’t you drive him home?”
Paul pulled away, looking John in the eyes, “No.”
John’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the bassist’s face, as if unwilling to believe he was actually serious.
“Christ Paul, you’re such a bloody woman you know that?” He finally spat, referring to the way Paul had placed his hands firmly on his hips, no traces of amusement in his voice, “hope you and Harrison have fun at your slumber party tonight.”
John turned sharply on his heel and snatched his coat off of the couch on his way out the door, slamming it firmly behind him.
Author: Spirit414
Pairing: George/Ringo, John/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Ringo loses his memory in an accident, it's up to George, Paul, and John to make sure he gets it back.
Author's Notes: So weeky update here!! MUCH thanks and love to heather_rawriee and captainemerald for beta-ing this for me and helping me make it the best it could be. :D You guys ROCK!! Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter!!
Disclaimer: What you are about to read is strictly fiction, and should be taken as such. As in, I made it all up. I also never claimed to own the Beatles.
Archive
Chapter Five: In Which George Talks About His Feelings
Watching a film together to try and become better friends with Ringo would have been a good idea, had the drummer not gone and ruined the whole thing for everyone.
They had done it once or twice before, the whole movie night business, but since they’d started touring and seeing each other every day, there became a need for “personal time” (a seemingly foreign thing to the four of them) where they exited the plane and went their separate ways for a day or two before meeting up at the studio to do it all again.
Paul had said eight o’clock. Eight was when they were supposed to get to the bassist’s flat and that’s when they’d start watching.
So when eight fifteen rolled around, the only thought that was running through George’s mind had something to do with that certain drummer and why the hell he wasn’t here already. It wasn’t like him to be late.
“It’s not like him to be late you know,” George said to no one in particular, still nursing the same drink he’d opened since arriving, “I wonder if something’s happened.”
“He’s…probably on his way,” Paul said, glancing at the clock, “maybe he’s lost again.”
“Or maybe he’s ditched us,” John chimed in with a grimace, “couldn’t stand the sight of us anymore so the lad decided to go and stand us up.”
George frowned, “Don’t say that,” he muttered quietly, “Ringo wouldn’t do that.” But the tiny voice in the back of George’s head told him otherwise, that he didn’t know what Ringo would do and wouldn’t do anymore. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, maybe Ringo had decided that his friends finally weren’t worth his time.
“I’m sure he’s coming,” Paul said again, but this time it seemed more for himself than to reassure George.
“Why don’t we just-” The sound of the doorbell cut off John’s sentence, and George looked sharply up at it, then to Paul, his stomach fluttering in that way it always had done when he’d first realized he had feelings for the drummer. Why was he so nervous? It was only Ringo, the same Ringo he’d known for two whole years.
The Ringo he now needed to impress enough so that he’d like George again, laugh when he said something funny or glance at him out of the corner of his eye with that grin that made George’s heart skip a beat. This was George’s second-well, fourth chance. Because maybe if George couldn’t get Ringo’s memory back, the least he could do was show him that he wasn’t some annoying kid who was trying too hard.
“Well don’t everyone just jump to answer it all at once,” John’s nasally voice cut in dryly, and he heaved himself out of the chair he’d been occupying to unlock the door and open it.
A strangely feminine voice cut through the silence that had penetrated the room, and George dared to glance around John’s form to get at glimpse of his friend in the doorway. His breath caught in his throat and George could feel his heart nearly stop in his chest, but it wasn’t Ringo’s smile that triggered it.
Walking through Paul’s doorway into his living room was Ringo, with none other than Maureen Cox glued to his arm.
“Hi George,” she said with a smile. A perfectly genuine, harmless smile that made George’s skin crawl at the sight of it.
George stared. How was it that she thought she was allowed to barge in here during their time together and smile at him and think that everything was just all fine? And even more so, why did Ringo think it was okay to simply let her intrude? He felt his fists clench around the bottle he was holding and gritted his teeth, not trusting himself to greet the two of them with anything but a string of carefully chosen curse words.
“George, why don’t you get them some drinks? Do you want some drinks? George will get you some.” Paul’s voice cut through his thoughts and George remembered to breathe, standing up to go into the kitchen with panic beginning to flood his chest.
Everything was ruined. Everything. George wouldn’t get to talk to Ringo like he’d wanted to, because bloody Mo was going to be in his way. George wouldn’t get to sit next to Ringo like he’d planned because Ringo always liked to sit by the armrest and now bloody Mo was going to be next to him. George wasn’t going to be able to do any of the things he’d planned on doing or talking about with Ringo tonight because bloody Mo was going to be there!
Slamming the bottle he’d finally drained in the recycling, George jerked open the refrigerator door to snatch three more bottles. One for him, one for Ringo, and one for fucking Mo.
“Easy there, son, I don’t remember Paul’s fridge being the one walking through that doorway attached to your poofy husband’s arm.”
John. Gritting his teeth again, George turned to see John leaning against the doorframe with a mildly amused expression. “You better piss off with the comments John.”
“Hostility was never a good look for you,” he cocked his head to the side, “I’m not happy about this either, but all I’m saying is that you better calm down before you go back in there. You wouldn’t want to say something you’ll regret.”
George stared blankly at the rhythm guitarist, wondering when John had decided to make any of this his business. It wasn’t as if John were Mr. Anger Management over there; he was in no place to be giving advice about calming down or anything of the sort.
Shoving past his friend, George couldn’t help but feel increasingly restless. This wasn’t John’s fault, and it wasn’t Paul’s fault, and it wasn’t Ringo’s fault, and as much as he hated to admit it, it wasn’t Mo’s fault either. She didn’t know about the two of them, she didn’t know she was intruding, (uninvited, if George was going to be specific here), on something that was planned especially for the four of them, and the four of them only.
But that’s what the problem was. George had no one to blame, and it was eating at him. The only one he could blame was himself, for not making Ringo feel comfortable enough for him to be able to come by himself. And George’s little drunk escapade with him the other day did nothing to help that matter.
He handed the drinks to the two of them sitting on the couch, carefully trying not to notice the way Ringo’s arm was around Maureen’s shoulders almost possessively and settled back in his chair.
“Well, I guess we’d better start then,” Paul said tentatively, switching on the telly to the film, which had already been on for nearly twenty minutes.
Of course George knew that it might have been awkward had it just been Ringo, but Maureen seemed to make the tension one hundred times worse. They couldn’t make the same jokes as before, couldn’t act like themselves around a woman. It was driving George mad, the way they were simply sitting there and saying nothing; and he glowered from his chair, focusing his anger at the telly and chugging his lager as if his life depended on it.
If comments were said, George didn’t register them; he avoided looking at Ringo and the others unless he absolutely had to and nodding politely if something was directed at him. He didn’t want to see the looks on John and Paul’s faces, didn’t want to see their concern at how fast he was drinking. George only wanted to quell the frustration and disappointment he felt every time he even glanced in their general direction.
And suddenly the two hours had passed and the movie was over. George blinked, grunting a goodbye at Ringo and Maureen as they headed out the door. Thoughts were still swirling around in his head, and George suddenly felt very empty without Ringo’s presence in the room. He stared at the wall in front of him resolutely, realizing another chance with Ringo was now wasted.
Thanks a lot Mo.
“George?” It was Paul’s gentle voice that broke through the haze in his mind and George looked up, squinting at the bassist across the room.
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go home?”
George managed to stand up from his chair, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to watch the room spin in front of his eyes, “I guess,” he muttered, standing up to head for the door.
“I’d be careful with the drinks George;” John said from the couch, “twice in three days really isn’t good for your health after all.”
The guitarist whirled around, jabbing a finger in what he hoped was John’s direction, “All you do is criticize me,” he ground out, “so piss the hell off John.”
“I was just--”
“You’re so…so condescending all the fucking time you know, I’m so sick of it.” Ringo must have told the two of them what had happened when they’d left the studio the other day. Great. Now they both knew how incredibly pathetic he was.
He felt a hand close around his and looked up to see Paul tug him gently towards his bedroom. George fell into step behind him, feeling worse with every second that passed. Why had he let himself do this again? If anything, it just amplified his feelings, causing them to swell and wash over him in waves of hurt.
“Paul,” he mumbled, allowing the bassist to push him down on the bed, on which he gratefully fell back on, groaning with the swimming in his head, “What are we doing.”
“I think I fancy a chat,” Paul answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and raising a much too perfect eyebrow at his friend, “now come on Geo, tell Uncle Paulie what’s going on.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t be daft,” he said, poking George in the side, “you think I don’t know when something’s wrong with you? Why’d you do this to yourself twice in a row?”
George felt a wave of sadness hit him and he shuddered, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to burst from his throat. He didn’t understand why he was being so reluctant with Paul, his best mate since he was a kid, someone he could tell anything. The words that had been swirling around in his head for days pressed down on him again, and George finally opened the dam.
“I miss him,” he whispered, taking in a shaky breath, “I just want the emptiness to go away.”
Paul nodded, as if he’d already known what the guitarist was going to say, “I know,” he murmured, “But It’ll be alright George, you’ll see.”
“No,” George muttered, “no it won’t. He…he doesn’t even like me Paul. Not anymore. Not after Maureen’s gone and snatched him away before I even had a chance.” Sitting up, he looked at the bassist with hazy eyes, feeling the tears well up in them and swiping his arm across his face. “He’ll fall in love with her and forget all about me. Even more than he already has.”
“C’mon Geo,” Paul reached out and placed his hand on George’s back reassuringly, “he’ll get his memory back and then he’ll come running right back into your arms. Just wait.”
The other thought that had been haunting George since the beginning of this mess pushed its way to the front of his mind and George let another shudder wrack his body, slipping down and finding his head in his friend’s lap. George stared at Paul’s clothed stomach, sniffing slightly.
“Paul I…” George trailed off, unable to reveal what had been eating at him for weeks now, afraid of what Paul would think of him.
“What,” Paul murmured, stroking his friend’s hair gently, “what’s troubling you.”
“I did it,” He whispered, feeling the tears leak out of his eyes and making no effort this time to wipe them away, “I caused Ritchie to lose his memory.”
Paul was silent for a moment, “You can’t have,” he answered finally, “unless you went and smacked him over the head with something,” George felt Paul chuckle, obviously finding the image funny, “I don’t think you did that.”
“I made him fall down the stairs,” he muttered brokenly, taking in a trembling breath before continuing, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, “we were having a fight and I wanted to leave,” he said, “and Rings wouldn’t move away from the door so I forced it open, and he fell out and down the stairs. He fell because I opened the door, and that’s why his memory’s gone.”
Paul listened carefully, never ceasing the soothing stroking of George’s hair, “Not your fault,” he said simply, “you can’t let this eat you inside George. You didn’t push Ritch; you didn’t throw him down the stairs. What happened was an accident, and you couldn’t have stopped it if you tried.”
“No!” George swallowed thickly, trying to make himself sound less pathetic, “You don’t understand, when he gets his memory back that’s what he’ll remember. Me opening that bloody door and letting him fall. Then he won’t want me anymore.”
Paul jerked George up from his lap and looked him in the eyes, “That’s the stupidest thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” he said sharply, “and I think Ringo would be offended if he ever knew you thought that way about him.”
“But--”
“No. Ringo loves you George, I know so, and he’d never toss you aside unless you’ve done something really awful.” Paul paused for a moment, “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
George felt a small smile reach his face, “No, I haven’t.”
Paul grinned, bringing his hand up to briefly brush the side of George’s face affectionately, “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said, “Rings I’m sure knows it was an accident. And when he remembers everything will be fine again.”
George furrowed his eyebrows, “Promise?”
“Yeah, promise.”
“Okay.” There was always something in Paul’s strong, unwavering voice that George simply trusted. Paul could tell him pigs were going to fall from the sky tomorrow and George would believe him.
“Now c’mere,” the bassist said, pulling the younger man into a brief hug, and George inhaled sharply, taking in Paul’s scent, one that always reminded him of everything that was home. It was nearly as comforting as Ringo’s scent, and when George pulled away he had a small, loopy smile on his face. “Ready to go home?”
George bit his lip. If he wasn’t as drunk as he was, he never would have asked, but the hole in his chest that Ringo had ripped out filled George with such emptiness that he ached with the very thought of spending another night alone in his flat.
“Can I stay here?” He mumbled.
Paul paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip slightly. “Sure,” he said finally, seemingly resolutely, “I’ll make a bed for you on the couch then, come on.”
George stood up, following the bassist back into his sitting room where John was staring moodily at the television.
“John,” Paul called, “help me get some blankets would you?”
“For what?”
“For George.”
John stood up slowly, and George sank into the armchair, watching as the rhythm guitarist strode over towards Paul with confusion on his face. He let his eyelids slide shut, the hushed voices becoming fuzzy to his ears.
“But I thought we were going to--”
“Just help me, would you?”
“So he’s just going to take precedence is he? Just like that?”
“John.”
“Paul.”
Paul sighed, deep and heavy, running a hand through his hair, “Having a bit of sympathy would be nice you know,” he said quietly, “he’s hurting John, and all you’re thinking about is your prick.”
“Mm,” John replied, “and your prick. Well your whole body really, naked and underneath me.” John leaned in close, apparently breathing some very dirty thoughts into Paul’s ear by the way the bassist’s face flushed.
“John…” Paul trailed off, leaning into the way John had began trailing kisses down his neck, “just let me set up the couch.”
“Can’t you drive him home?”
Paul pulled away, looking John in the eyes, “No.”
John’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the bassist’s face, as if unwilling to believe he was actually serious.
“Christ Paul, you’re such a bloody woman you know that?” He finally spat, referring to the way Paul had placed his hands firmly on his hips, no traces of amusement in his voice, “hope you and Harrison have fun at your slumber party tonight.”
John turned sharply on his heel and snatched his coat off of the couch on his way out the door, slamming it firmly behind him.