The Reality of the Situation
Title: The Reality of the Situation
Pairing: George/Ringo, Paul/George
Rating: PG
Summary: Ringo listens as George spills about Paul.
Author notes: Caught up in reading eleanorrigby_66 , spirit414 , and bostonhartache 's shit. Just managed to squeeze out a piece of my own before I went completely mental from zombies, prostitutes, amnesia, and coke.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional, do not own The Beatles
Ringo snubbed out the dead and shriveling cigarette with his foot and automatically lit another one. He took a deep drag from the new cigarette and then leaned against the balcony and let it hang loosely from his lips. It was dark outside, or at least dark enough to miss being noticed by people, or so Ringo hoped. He just wanted to be alone right now. He wanted to go back in time before he was a Beatle, or maybe forward in time to get over the whole thing. He didn’t quite know which, nor did he really care.
Ringo heard the vague sound of keys rustling and a door opening, but he paid no attention to it, instead looking once at the grimy ground and once at the paper clouds shielding the moon.
“I thought you’d gone to sleep.”
Ringo vaguely nodded to acknowledge George’s presence. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew clouds at the moon.
“Nope,” Ringo mumbled. “I’m here.”
George was a bit more forward in attracting attention this time. He advanced toward Ringo and leaned his side against the balcony rail. His gaze was set intently on Ringo, as it always was when he was attempting at a conversation. George had always been one to push the boundaries of casual human contact.
“Everything all right?” George inquired.
Ringo still failed to look at him as he replied, “All right.” He spared a glance at George and spat, “Where’s Paul and them?”
“They’re at the party, dancing with the birds. I couldn’t take it much longer, had to leave, you know. Some peace and quiet sounded nice.”
“Yeah.”
Ringo watched George out of the corner of his eye as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more. His heart sped up in anticipation as he processed that they were alone for the first time in a long one. It had been weeks since they’d roomed together-it was always Ringo and John, and George and Paul now. And even when Paul and John were working out a new song on the piano and leaving George and Ringo ostracized together, it never was quite alone, was it, since the others were just a heartbeat away.
This was the first time in a long time. Maybe-?
“And anyway, seeing Paul dance with girls always does rile me up a bit,” George added. “Eventually I had to get away.”
Ringo’s anticipation was crushed under what felt like a waste compactor or an anvil or something else metal and heavy. He turned his stare completely back to the moon and weakly managed a “yeah.”
“I mean, I know it doesn’t mean anything, the birds,” George continued, completely unaware of Ringo’s tenseness, “Because I know he’ll always come back to me in the end. And it’s not like I’m a back up or anything, I just mean more to him than the birds. He means more to me too, I suppose.”
Again Ringo glanced at George and saw, as expected, the downcast eyes and the lightly pursed lips that meant that he was embarrassed or ashamed to admit something, even if it were something as true and real as love.
And though Ringo knew not a fraction of that look was meant for him, Ringo’s heart lifted at seeing George so in love like that. It was so endearing, the way George avoided eye contact whenever he talked about Paul, and Ringo found himself turning to fully face George and beckoning, “Yeah?” when he knew he shouldn’t, knew it would just end up hurting more in the end.
George seemed somewhat relieved when Ringo finally looked at him, and he straightened his back and said, “Yeah. We both mess around a bit, but it don’t mean anything.”
Ringo couldn’t miss the light that shined in George’s dark, dark eyes, and he felt his heart pull and burst simultaneously. And suddenly, he wanted to see more of that light, so he decided to play the game again.
Ringo commanded, “Tell me more about Paul, George.”
George looked taken aback. “Again? You just asked me not last week!”
“Well, tell me again. And anyway, I heard it’s good to get all those feelings out, not bottle anything up or something. I’m just being a friend.”
Those words stung Ringo’s ears like they had for months. Just friends. That’s all they were and all they’d ever be, all because of Paul fucking McCartney. And really, it wasn’t Paul’s fault, because he didn’t know about Ringo, but that didn’t help Ringo from wanting to tell Paul to go shove it when he said the tempo wasn’t fast enough or the cymbals weren’t loud enough. Or when he held George like that and whispered things in his ear that made George smile or shiver. Paul didn’t know, but Ringo couldn’t care less, really.
“Um, okay,” George mumbled fidgeting. He tucked his hair behind his ear. “What about?”
“I don’t know. How about what you feel when he looks at you?” Ringo tried to say as casually as possible when he was fighting not to break inside.
George frowned in thought and turned to lean his front against the balcony rail. He patted his pockets for a cigarette and found nothing, but Ringo handed him his own that was almost all used up by now. George finished the cigarette off and tossed it to the abyss below. He looked down, and then up, and then Ringo wanted to just run his hands through those thick, dark strands and brush his bangs out of the way.
George took a deep breath before saying quietly, “When he looks at me, it’s like the world has stopped turning. Or like I’m the whole world to him, I don’t know which. He really sees me, and his eyes are full of a light and emotion that’s totally different from the kind he shows on stage.”
And suddenly George wasn’t nervous anymore and he kept going. “Sometimes he looks at me and he smiles, and there are little wrinkles around his eyes-have you noticed that?-and it’s like he’s really happy. And knowing that that happiness is there because of me is … out of this world.”
Ringo expected his heart to drop or freeze at any moment, but it just swelled, because he was playing now. He was pretending, he was pretending that George wasn’t talking about Paul, but about him. He was talking about Ringo making him feel like he was the only one in the world, because Ringo knew that it was definitely vice versa.
George was lost now, finally turning toward Ringo. There was a smile playing on his lips and a light in his eyes, the kind that he had just described in Paul’s a moment before. He said hastily as if he had been waiting to tell somebody for a long time, “Paulie makes me feel so special. Like when he holds me, it’s like I’m falling into that blissful sleep-not the kind where you’re in it so deep that you can’t get out, but the kind where you know you’re in a good place outside of the dream and in it. It’s magical, that kind of-you know.”
And George was scared to say it, the word. But he didn’t even have to say it in order to finally break Ringo’s heart. Maybe this time with a syringe full of mercury poisoning instead of an anvil, because Ringo could feel his heart leaking, and suddenly his eyes were leaking, but he wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about all that emotion in George’s face and he couldn’t pretend anymore as the reality of the situation hit Ringo with a SMACK! to his face and a BOOM! to his heart.
George’s face immediately fell upon seeing Ringo’s eyes water. His dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry and he quietly said, “Rings? You okay, mate?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Ringo whispered. He cleared his throat and blinked away the tears. “‘M fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“What? No,” Ringo composed himself. It was easier now with all his experience of doing so. He quickly explained, “It’s just that it’s great to hear all that. Good to know that there is love like that out there, what with all the shit that’s always going on in the world. It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” George said, still a bit confused. Then he grinned and smacked Ringo’s shoulder, chirping, “You need to find yourself a girl, mate. Or a boy. At least someone to make you feel that way.”
Ringo didn’t move and just said, “I already have.”
George’s eyebrows furrowed in again, but just then the door burst open and a drunken Paul and John staggered into the suite belting the French national anthem. Ringo wasn’t there anymore, because all George saw was Paul as he rushed over and tackled him to the ground in a fit of laughter. They were in their own little world, like George had said, and Ringo wasn’t invited.
John, with his long fingers barely hanging onto the neck of a near empty beer bottle, watched the two rowdy boys for a second and then turned to Ringo, who was still leaning against the balcony rail. Ringo locked eyes with John but said nothing and just turned back around, lighting another cigarette and staring, once again, at the purple clouds blocking the moonlight.
Pairing: George/Ringo, Paul/George
Rating: PG
Summary: Ringo listens as George spills about Paul.
Author notes: Caught up in reading eleanorrigby_66 , spirit414 , and bostonhartache 's shit. Just managed to squeeze out a piece of my own before I went completely mental from zombies, prostitutes, amnesia, and coke.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional, do not own The Beatles
Ringo snubbed out the dead and shriveling cigarette with his foot and automatically lit another one. He took a deep drag from the new cigarette and then leaned against the balcony and let it hang loosely from his lips. It was dark outside, or at least dark enough to miss being noticed by people, or so Ringo hoped. He just wanted to be alone right now. He wanted to go back in time before he was a Beatle, or maybe forward in time to get over the whole thing. He didn’t quite know which, nor did he really care.
Ringo heard the vague sound of keys rustling and a door opening, but he paid no attention to it, instead looking once at the grimy ground and once at the paper clouds shielding the moon.
“I thought you’d gone to sleep.”
Ringo vaguely nodded to acknowledge George’s presence. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew clouds at the moon.
“Nope,” Ringo mumbled. “I’m here.”
George was a bit more forward in attracting attention this time. He advanced toward Ringo and leaned his side against the balcony rail. His gaze was set intently on Ringo, as it always was when he was attempting at a conversation. George had always been one to push the boundaries of casual human contact.
“Everything all right?” George inquired.
Ringo still failed to look at him as he replied, “All right.” He spared a glance at George and spat, “Where’s Paul and them?”
“They’re at the party, dancing with the birds. I couldn’t take it much longer, had to leave, you know. Some peace and quiet sounded nice.”
“Yeah.”
Ringo watched George out of the corner of his eye as he brought the cigarette to his lips once more. His heart sped up in anticipation as he processed that they were alone for the first time in a long one. It had been weeks since they’d roomed together-it was always Ringo and John, and George and Paul now. And even when Paul and John were working out a new song on the piano and leaving George and Ringo ostracized together, it never was quite alone, was it, since the others were just a heartbeat away.
This was the first time in a long time. Maybe-?
“And anyway, seeing Paul dance with girls always does rile me up a bit,” George added. “Eventually I had to get away.”
Ringo’s anticipation was crushed under what felt like a waste compactor or an anvil or something else metal and heavy. He turned his stare completely back to the moon and weakly managed a “yeah.”
“I mean, I know it doesn’t mean anything, the birds,” George continued, completely unaware of Ringo’s tenseness, “Because I know he’ll always come back to me in the end. And it’s not like I’m a back up or anything, I just mean more to him than the birds. He means more to me too, I suppose.”
Again Ringo glanced at George and saw, as expected, the downcast eyes and the lightly pursed lips that meant that he was embarrassed or ashamed to admit something, even if it were something as true and real as love.
And though Ringo knew not a fraction of that look was meant for him, Ringo’s heart lifted at seeing George so in love like that. It was so endearing, the way George avoided eye contact whenever he talked about Paul, and Ringo found himself turning to fully face George and beckoning, “Yeah?” when he knew he shouldn’t, knew it would just end up hurting more in the end.
George seemed somewhat relieved when Ringo finally looked at him, and he straightened his back and said, “Yeah. We both mess around a bit, but it don’t mean anything.”
Ringo couldn’t miss the light that shined in George’s dark, dark eyes, and he felt his heart pull and burst simultaneously. And suddenly, he wanted to see more of that light, so he decided to play the game again.
Ringo commanded, “Tell me more about Paul, George.”
George looked taken aback. “Again? You just asked me not last week!”
“Well, tell me again. And anyway, I heard it’s good to get all those feelings out, not bottle anything up or something. I’m just being a friend.”
Those words stung Ringo’s ears like they had for months. Just friends. That’s all they were and all they’d ever be, all because of Paul fucking McCartney. And really, it wasn’t Paul’s fault, because he didn’t know about Ringo, but that didn’t help Ringo from wanting to tell Paul to go shove it when he said the tempo wasn’t fast enough or the cymbals weren’t loud enough. Or when he held George like that and whispered things in his ear that made George smile or shiver. Paul didn’t know, but Ringo couldn’t care less, really.
“Um, okay,” George mumbled fidgeting. He tucked his hair behind his ear. “What about?”
“I don’t know. How about what you feel when he looks at you?” Ringo tried to say as casually as possible when he was fighting not to break inside.
George frowned in thought and turned to lean his front against the balcony rail. He patted his pockets for a cigarette and found nothing, but Ringo handed him his own that was almost all used up by now. George finished the cigarette off and tossed it to the abyss below. He looked down, and then up, and then Ringo wanted to just run his hands through those thick, dark strands and brush his bangs out of the way.
George took a deep breath before saying quietly, “When he looks at me, it’s like the world has stopped turning. Or like I’m the whole world to him, I don’t know which. He really sees me, and his eyes are full of a light and emotion that’s totally different from the kind he shows on stage.”
And suddenly George wasn’t nervous anymore and he kept going. “Sometimes he looks at me and he smiles, and there are little wrinkles around his eyes-have you noticed that?-and it’s like he’s really happy. And knowing that that happiness is there because of me is … out of this world.”
Ringo expected his heart to drop or freeze at any moment, but it just swelled, because he was playing now. He was pretending, he was pretending that George wasn’t talking about Paul, but about him. He was talking about Ringo making him feel like he was the only one in the world, because Ringo knew that it was definitely vice versa.
George was lost now, finally turning toward Ringo. There was a smile playing on his lips and a light in his eyes, the kind that he had just described in Paul’s a moment before. He said hastily as if he had been waiting to tell somebody for a long time, “Paulie makes me feel so special. Like when he holds me, it’s like I’m falling into that blissful sleep-not the kind where you’re in it so deep that you can’t get out, but the kind where you know you’re in a good place outside of the dream and in it. It’s magical, that kind of-you know.”
And George was scared to say it, the word. But he didn’t even have to say it in order to finally break Ringo’s heart. Maybe this time with a syringe full of mercury poisoning instead of an anvil, because Ringo could feel his heart leaking, and suddenly his eyes were leaking, but he wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about all that emotion in George’s face and he couldn’t pretend anymore as the reality of the situation hit Ringo with a SMACK! to his face and a BOOM! to his heart.
George’s face immediately fell upon seeing Ringo’s eyes water. His dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry and he quietly said, “Rings? You okay, mate?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Ringo whispered. He cleared his throat and blinked away the tears. “‘M fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“What? No,” Ringo composed himself. It was easier now with all his experience of doing so. He quickly explained, “It’s just that it’s great to hear all that. Good to know that there is love like that out there, what with all the shit that’s always going on in the world. It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” George said, still a bit confused. Then he grinned and smacked Ringo’s shoulder, chirping, “You need to find yourself a girl, mate. Or a boy. At least someone to make you feel that way.”
Ringo didn’t move and just said, “I already have.”
George’s eyebrows furrowed in again, but just then the door burst open and a drunken Paul and John staggered into the suite belting the French national anthem. Ringo wasn’t there anymore, because all George saw was Paul as he rushed over and tackled him to the ground in a fit of laughter. They were in their own little world, like George had said, and Ringo wasn’t invited.
John, with his long fingers barely hanging onto the neck of a near empty beer bottle, watched the two rowdy boys for a second and then turned to Ringo, who was still leaning against the balcony rail. Ringo locked eyes with John but said nothing and just turned back around, lighting another cigarette and staring, once again, at the purple clouds blocking the moonlight.