Orange Collision
Title: Orange Collision
Pairings: J/P, G/R Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations
Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific. Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home. Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...
A/N: I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.
Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.
Previous Chapters
Chapter 21
Face mashed in the pillow, he laughed and felt his chest press into the blankets beneath him. Everything was hilarious, wasn’t it? Funny and good.
“Fuck are you laughing about?” John giggled, his expression shaving about two years off his face.
“I dunno,” George answered. He was actually, honestly clueless. Well, maybe not too clueless. They had just smoked a bag of reefer, hadn’t they? Lucky little thing to find in the dark corners of John’s suitcase.
John laughed hysterically at that, squishing his head against the blankets before lifting them up and draping them across the both of them, over their heads. His vision dimmed and he looked to the side, saw that John was wearing a huge smile, pleased with having created this childish, fucked up little world underneath the covers. Truthfully, he was quite pleased as well-showed it by laughing.
“Fuck, you can’t stop, can you?” John smiled wryly.
“Can’t help it,” George responded, making odd noises as he tried to hold back his giggles. John looked up at the blanket covering his face, content.
“Jesus,” he said, “I haven’t felt this happy in ages. Do remind me to check me suitcase more often, yeah?”
“Sure,” he answered before a nagging thought ran out of his mouth, “Could have saved some for Paul and Ringo, though.”
John snorted instantly, his body going rigid, “It’s their own loss.”
There was something harsh in John’s tone. Something pointed and ugly that George wanted to stay away from, “Yeah.”
“I mean, it was their decision, wasn’t it? Their decision to bugger off like idiots.”
By their George knew that he was talking about Paul. The two of them hadn’t been right for awhile now, lulling into pained, tension-filled exchanges before breaking away to more friendly ground. It was agonizing. Annoying, really.
“I mean, do they really think they’re gonna get anywhere?! Are they really that motherfucking clueless?!”
“They just want to try,” George shrugged, realized that every time he blinked his lashes would rub against the blanket. He let out a sideways smile.
“Yeah, well, good luck to them. And good fucking riddance,” John said, shaking the empty bag of reefer happily. Grinning, George snatched it and examined the empty contents, his eyes having already gotten used to the dark. He wished that there was more, considered maybe asking Mal if he had any to share.
John sighed, “It’s bloody hot in here.”
“Well we’re under the blankets, aren’t we?” he retorted and John smacked him in the arm.
“Don’t get cheeky, son. Next time I might not feel up to sharing,” he said. They engaged in a long, humorous look before they both cracked up laughing, giggling into the sheets.
“Hey!” they heard from the other world, “What are you lot doing?”
Suddenly, the blanket was being pulled off and Neil, curious with his hands on his hips, was hovering above them. He stared at their hysterical forms for a minute before his eyes rested on the empty bag that George was holding, “Ah.”
“It’s John’s,” George said, throwing it at him.
“Actually, it’s yours,” John corrected, looking at Neil. “I found it on the floor in your room. You must have dropped it.”
Neil colored a sharp shade of red and George quickly turned to look out the window, anything to keep himself from laughing. Chicago was a big city with dodgy residents and a few buildings that lit up. He didn’t much like it here but, then again, he was hard-pressed to find any place that he liked more than home.
“Oh. And how lucky I am that you decided to return it to me,” Neil said, grabbing the empty bag in annoyance.
“Aren’t you?”
George could practically feel Neil seething from behind him. He had to wonder why he hadn’t questioned John about the pot in the first place-John was never really one who was into savoring anything. Forgetting about it was one thing, but he doubted that John would have forgotten about a whole bag of reefer. He should have assumed that someone else would have been made a victim to John’s needs.
“Do me a favor,” Neil said, keeping his voice tight, “And do try to return my things to me in the way that you find them.”
George turned back and saw John’s face, bored. “Have you run into Paul and Ringo yet?” he asked.
Neil straightened up, not forgetting about the reefer, but not allowing it to eclipse a change of subject, “Haven’t. Why?”
“They’ve decided to try and ask Brian if we can go out tonight,” George filled in. The three of them shared a smile instantly.
“Not bloody likely. Especially after what happened when we got here. Birds climbing on the cars and plane and whatnot.”
“That’s what I said,” John said wistfully, taking out ciggies for the three of them, “But you know Paul. Doesn’t fucking listen to a thing that anyone’s got to say.”
“Yeah well,” Neil started as he lit a match, “Surprised that you two didn’t go and watch the show.”
“We were a bit busy,” John said, malicious smile on his face. Neil just rolled his eyes, had learned as long ago as the school yard to pick and choose his battles with John. George giggled and sucked on his cigarette.
There was an echo of voices drawing in closer before their door was pulled open and Ringo and Paul scooted into the room. Paul looked a bit put-out but Ringo didn’t really look any different. He had been expecting as much, told him so, but he was the only one who had agreed to go with Paul on his little quest to manipulate Brian.
“Let me guess,” John said, the hard tone returning, “He agreed and now we can all put on our petticoats and march outside where we will be greeted by a humble number of reasonable, respectable fans.”
George and Ringo laughed while Paul gave John a scathing look, choosing not to reply.
“Hey!” Ringo said as he pointed at the empty bag in Neil’s hand, “I see what you lot have been up to!”
“Oh just them,” Neil responded, tone icy, “They were planning on saving some for us, I’m sure.”
“Oh we were,” John grinned, “But George here went and smoked the rest of it.”
“Couldn’t help it. I was incredibly parched,” he played along, John laughing beside him. Ringo let out his own loose laughter, poor Neil standing in the corner and shoving the bag in his pocket.
Paul stared at them, face expressionless, before he turned and left.
***
He was balancing on a piece of equipment, wires tangling around his feet as he stared at Ringo.
There was something different about him, something off. George didn’t know what it was exactly, didn’t know if it was mental or physical, but he was eager to find out.
And that, in and of itself, was a bad sign. But George ignored it.
“We’re starting up again,” John said, nodding at him and Ringo. They had had to stop while Paul and John tuned up, arguing a bit in the process, making George’s head feel like soup. And now they were ready, Ringo eagerly tapping out the beat on his set. He put his hands into place and fingered the opening chords to “Eight Days A Week”, John’s voice coming out strong. They had already checked his microphone so he didn’t need to sing backup, something that he welcomed, so he sat back and stared at Ringo, his head bopping encouragingly.
Realizing what was happening, Ringo looked at him and smiled, hitting his drums harder. George fumbled with the chords, Paul stopped, and they didn’t start up again for ten minutes.
***
George was leaning his head against the back of the seat, his feet resting in the isle. Ringo had decided to sit by the window, much to George’s appreciation.
“I’ve got a theory,” Ringo said. He wasn’t making any sense, really. But it was entertaining to listen to, at any rate. “I’ve got a theory that the world is all in our heads. It’s our imagination, you know. And everyone adds a little bit to it.”
“Well that’s true, isn’t it? Everyone does add a little something to it. The world is everyone.”
Ringo stared before tapping him on the shoulder, “There you go again. Taking my theories and making them better.”
George’s eyes were focused on the spot where Ringo had tapped him. It was tingling, warm, despite the fact that there was a layer of clothes between their skin. “Just talking, is all.”
Ringo laughed and stared at the ceiling, “I’ve got another theory.”
There was a bit of turbulence as the plane headed towards the ground. “What about the sea? Suppose it’s not really water. Suppose it’s land. And then land is sea.”
George pondered this, thought about how odd it would be to have gills, “I don’t think I’d like that too much.”
“Yeah me neither,” he responded.
Ringo got like this sometimes. To feast on something other than boredom he’d start saying really odd, nonsensical things. Well, nonsensical to everyone else, but endlessly fascinating to George. He liked thinking, liked it more than he thought was common, and Ritchie’s words always managed to send his mind on a bit of a journey. So while everyone else was laughing, he was thinking, storing his words away.
Of course, when his mind wasn’t filled with Ringo’s odd revelations, then it was filled with thoughts about him in general. George wondered if he was starting to become obsessed.
Before he could think on this, everything descended into complete and utter commotion. The plane dipped in altitude again and someone’s voice rang out over the speaker and people were yelling and shouting and when he looked out of the window he saw that the plane was on fire.
He didn’t move. His heart was racing and his stomach was churning, thought he might throw up. Ringo’s eyes were wide, staring at the people who were jumping up from their seats and rushing around. It was strange to see; all of his mates and reporters, people that he had gotten to know on some sort of level, were yelling and freaking out, reacting on base instincts. Though he figured that he probably must have looked weirder than any of them, just sitting around like he was at a fucking tea party.
He always knew about planes, though, didn’t he? Hated the fucking things, absolutely. And now he was being proved right; the fire was showing everyone how fucking horribly unreliable these things actually were. Bitterness crawled up his throat. He realized that even if he did die at least he’d die knowing that he was right.
He kept waiting too. Waiting for the time when Ringo would jump up and freak out like the rest of them, instead of sitting around with George while he had his own mental breakdown. But Ringo didn’t leave. Breathing harshly, he continued to scan the plane, blue eyes absorbing everything, forgetting nothing. Dimly, George thought that he looked good-wouldn’t mind this being the last thing that the saw.
And then he felt the jump and the vibration of concrete underneath the wheels. They were on the ground. Feeling his heart rate clamber back to its normal rhythm, he looked away.
***
“Chicken,” George mumbled, stabbing the meat with his fork. He was sick of it, honestly. Had eaten enough of it in the past week that he was seriously worried he might start clucking every time he opened his mouth.
“Peas,” Ringo responded, holding up his spoon. George smiled.
“A bit sick of it, yeah? I feel like I’ve been eating the same thing for the past week.”
“You have been,” Ringo pointed out. George rolled his eyes.
“Yeah well…it’s boring,” he whined, grabbing the saltshaker and adding some to his meal. John laughed from somewhere behind him and George turned around.
“What did Curly do now?” he asked, aware that John was watching The Three Stooges, glasses off as he sat unbearably close to the screen.
“No, it’s one with Shemp,” John said, rolling the name off his lips with a particular level of distaste. Ringo spun around in his chair.
“Hey I like Shemp.”
“And that’s perfectly alright, son,” John said, “I can get behind a bloke without a personality every once in awhile too.”
George laughed and brought another piece of chicken to his lips, cringing when he realized that he had put too much salt on it.
“He has personality!” Ringo responded. “Maybe he’s not as…loud as Curly is…”
“I like Shemp better too,” George said, coming to Ringo’s defense, “He’s less annoying.”
“Well hats off to you two. Now bugger off. I can’t hear!”
Ringo turned around and smiled at him, a gesture that he returned. Looking down at George’s plate, Ringo frowned and lifted up another spoonful of peas, “Want some?”
“No,” George sighed, “I’ll just ask Mal to pick something up later.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. It’s alright,” he said. And then Ringo was smiling at him. It was odd, genuine. So he smiled back. Had no idea what they were smiling about, really, but he wasn’t going to stop it. Ringo reached forward and grabbed a napkin, their hands brushing in the meantime. It made a knot tighten in his stomach, he felt himself turning red like he had done when they had accidentally touched after he showed Ringo the Ravi pamphlet. He wondered what the fuck was wrong with him, hoped that Ringo wasn’t noticing anything off.
“Hey,” John said, suddenly right behind him. He jumped, dropping his fork and sending it clanging on the countertop. “No need to be so jumpy. Just wondering if you were going to eat that.”
George shrugged, “It’s got loads of salt on it.”
John didn’t care. Kept his face expressionless as he extended his hand, “Well give it here.”
***
He remembered Los Angeles from last year, remembered playing at the Hollywood Bowl. Wondered what it would be like this year, even though he instinctively knew that it wouldn’t be as good. So far things were awful, the fans were awful, the music was awful. He could hardly think of a single thing that he liked about this shoddy tour.
He stared around the room with a bored expression. Brian had secured them a private room for them to wait for their flight. They had to fly commercially now, since their private plane still hadn’t been fixed after the fire incident. He wondered what the people would be like, wondered if he’d get an ounce of peace on this fucking trip.
Tried refusing at first, he did. Tried to tell Brian that he was not getting on another plane after what had happened before. But, of course, it had all fallen on deaf ears. He told them that they needed to fly, that it was pertinent that they get to their show on time. It had sounded like a load of shite to George’s ears but he didn’t argue. Brian knew what was best for them, didn’t he?
And that was how he ended up crammed in this tiny little room with rust coming out of the walls and a single window shining in light on the dirty floor. John and Paul were sitting across from each other, silent as usual, though George didn’t miss the odd glances that they sometimes shared, and Ringo was sprawled out over four seats, sleeping. He watched his chest move up and down.
“This is fucking taking forever,” John muttered. George looked out the window, noticed that the sky was an odd bluish purple color. He wondered if it was going to rain later, wouldn’t that be sweet? It would start raining while they were up in the air, causing the plane to wobble during the flight and make him sick. If it didn’t crash entirely.
‘Cause that was his luck, wasn’t it?
“Brian’s trying to work it out,” Paul mumbled, bringing his leg up to rest his head on his knee. John snorted but didn’t say anything. George was glad.
Apparently this commercial flight was giving them some problems. He didn’t know why exactly, but Brian had gotten into a particularly heated discussion with the lady at the reception desk before they were shuffled to this little room. Maybe there weren’t enough seats left?
Ringo let out a particularly loud snore and George smiled. He noticed that John was staring at him, though, so he dropped the smile instantly, didn’t want John to think things.
Didn’t even know what he could think. He didn’t even know what was going on. What was so different about Ringo that was causing him to think about him this much?
Soon, the door was opening and Brian, Mal and Neil strode into the room, wearing relieved faces.
“Good news,” Brian started, “I’ve got you all some tickets.”
Good news, indeed.
The sun was shining brightly, he could tell. Didn’t fancy going out to look at it, was comfortable to just sit in his hut and have a staring contest with Tidbits. Really, he didn’t know why cats liked to stare so fucking much. But, then again, he liked to stare, didn’t he? His staring was what got him into this mess with Ringo. He probably looked just as daft as a cat when he did it too.
Tidbits tilted her head to the side, her yellow eyes darkening. George reached out to pet her but she scurried off, leaving the hut. He sighed and leaned back against the blanket, wondering when Ringo was going to get back. Wondering what he should do. He didn’t like ignoring him but he had to get his thoughts in order. If Ringo kept…looking at him like that or speaking to him like that or making him remember that time in the forest then he was going to lose his head. It was bad enough that he could so easily succumb to that memory on his own-would pull down his pants and have a quick wank in the forest, randy as a fucking teenager-he didn’t need Ringo helping him along. He didn’t need to be reminded of that time when he had lunged at Ringo, brought their lips together and pushed them into the ground, taking what he wanted.
The thought aroused and embarrassed him. He had to hide his erection when John crawled into the hut.
“They’re gone,” he said, voice emotionless. George looked up, startled.
“Who?” he asked, though he knew who John was talking about, braced himself for his acid-filled retort.
It never came, “Paul and Ringo. Tucker said he saw them leave late last night.”
George’s heart was racing. Paul and Ringo? But but..what?!
John continued, “They’ve run off to find Nicole,” and then his voice suddenly gained some emotion. He laughed, “Fuck. I knew this would happen. I knew. He’s so fucking stupid…”
George’s throat had suddenly gone very, very dry. They had…Paul had…they’d…and Ringo! Ringo. He’d have done anything for Paul, if he asked, but he’d have especially gone with him now. Just to get away from him. Because he had been acting awful, hadn’t he? Like a fucking git. He’d yelled and now…
“We should get ready,” John said, his voice was emotionless again, “We’ll leave to go after them tonight.”
George blinked and nodded. John didn’t see, had left before he had the chance. In the opening in the curtain, he saw Tidbits standing there, watching him again. He wished that she would come over and rub her face on him or something but when she turned around and followed John, he found that he was happier to be alone.
To be continued…