Ringo Starr loathed the telephone.
For good reason, perhaps. It seemed he never got any good news, over the phone. All the good news came right to his door, knocking excitedly and bouncing around his kitchen while Barb made tea (or coffee, depending on the news bearer).
The bad news always came over the phone. When Maureen, then Linda got sick. When John was shot. When some lunatic had broken into George's house, nearly killing him.
He hated the phone, so he rarely answered it. He tended to let Barb get it. So it was as he stood in his kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee, perusing the refrigerator. The phone rang, and Barb assured him she'd gotten it.
There was a very long moment. When he looked up, Barb was standing in the arched doorway, phone held to her chest. She looked haunted. He set down his coffee, stepping towards her, concerned.
"What, Barbara, what's wrong?"
"George is sick."
+
John and Paul were knee-deep in liquor, laughing up a storm, when George returned. His hair was sticking up in funny directions, and his eyes were just a bit glazed. A bit after he walked through the door, the professional woman he'd escaped with came in, adjusting her shirt and smiling, pleased.
George always had overpaid the pros, probably always would. He was so young, yet.
He more or less fell into his seat, eyes half-lidded as he grasped the pint that had been waiting for him.
"George, meet Ringo. He's Rory's drummer."
George looked up over the edge of his heavy glass. The drummer in question nodded at the younger man. His smile stretched deep into his pale blue-grey eyes, contradicting the sort of menacing appearance of the grey streaks in his hair and eyebrow.
"'Lo," the younger man mumbled into his beer. The glint in the drummer's eyes flashed.
+
At least George was still up and about. He had a cane with him, though, the sight of which made Ringo's insides squirm uncomfortably.
George was the baby, the kid brother, the youngest. He shouldn't be sick like this, hair falling out in loose clumps and cheeks hollow, gaunter than he'd ever been, gaunter than could ever be considered healthy.
George ushered his old friend into his home, talking as if nothing were wrong. Ringo followed, head hung, heart heavy.
+
"Oi, lads."
Ringo looked up. No one else did. George clutched a sheaf of papers to his chest, giving the whole room an imploring look that only the drummer saw.
"Lads?"
Ringo glanced around. Paul and John were off in their own little world, it seemed, unable to even hear George's timid words.
"Oi! Lovebirds!" Ringo pointed his voice towards the songwriters. They pulled apart guiltily, glancing at the drummer. He gestured towards George. "'e's got somethin' to say."
Now that George had their attention, he flushed a bit, eyes flashing at Ringo in a way that was part appreciation and part nerves. Ringo smiled encouragingly.
"I wrote a song."
John and Paul exchanged glances. The silence that stretched after that pronouncement was heavy, and George began shifting from foot to foot.
Finally, Paul cleared his throat, and John sat back, pushing his thick glasses up his nose.
"Let's see it, then."
+
Olivia sipped her tea slowly. She only looked up every now and again, catching Ringo's eyes and forcing a smile onto her lips. Ever the kind hostess, even when her husband was upstairs with a doctor, too weak to make it to the doctor's office with only her help.
Ringo sipped at his tea as well, if just to assure her that it was fine.
She sighed slightly; she was always sighing like that. Every time thought of her husband's poor state crossed her mind.
Ringo reached across the little kitchen table, gripping her hand gently.
"He'll be fine, 'liv."
She sighed again, looking down. "I'm afraid he won't."
Ringo couldn't respond to that, so he simply sipped his tea and gave her hand as much of a comforting squeeze as he could manage.
+
George couldn't stop giggling. Ringo felt as if he were floating, right against the ceiling.
George reached out, grasping Ringo's wrists, and suddenly their chests were pressed together, George's frenzied giggles hot on Ringo's lips.
"The ceiling, Rich, you said that. Remember, before? The ceiling."
Ringo lost himself, giggling along with George, their chests heaving in perfect opposition.
"The ceiling," he echoed George, pressing their foreheads together, trying to meet George's eyes through joint tears of mirth.
Then George's lips were on his own, warm and sweet and smoky. George's tongue soft against his lips.
+
This time, Ringo had to answer the phone as it rang. He was alone in the hotel room, Barb having had to go home for a few days.
As usual, the news was bleak. George had taken a turn for the worse. Olivia's voice sounded completely broken as she begged Ringo to come to the house. George was asking for him and Paul both.
+
George's breath was hot on his neck, like soft fire that made tiny hairs stand at attention. Every quiet noise George made blossomed into full color behind Ringo's closed eyelids. He couldn't even bring his eyes to open, as much as he wanted too see the younger man pressed against him. The acid ravaged through them both, they didn't even know the meaning of the word 'inhibition' anymore.
As George's thin fingers began to unbuckle his belt, Ringo moaned quietly. George's laugh was every color of the rainbow, melting and swirling and beautiful.
+
"Do you remember?"
George had been placed on complete bed-rest. He was propped up on a whole stack of pillows, bright pinks and oranges adding some color to the room, all while drawing color out of George's face.
"Of course." Ringo spoke quietly, as if to not remind George of how weak his own voice was.
"Do you still love me, Richie?"
Ringo pressed a soft kiss to his damp forehead. "I will always love you."
+
The phone was ringing. Ringo was still half-drunk, and the sound of his phone in his ear was making him insane. He answered it just to make the noise stop.
"'lo?"
"Have you seen the fuckin' paper?"
Ringo sat up. "What?"
"Have you seen the paper, Rich?"
"I've just woken up, George, what are you on about?"
"Paul."
Ringo winced. What had the bassist done this time?
"What about 'im, George?"
"He's left. He told the press that he left the band. It's over."
+
George was so pale.
Ringo held a glass for him, helping his dear friend take a sip of the offered tea.
Olivia was downstairs, making breakfast.
Ringo set the glass down carefully on the bedside table, taking George's thin hand in his own, lifting it and pressing the dry skin to his own chapped lips.
George's voice was weak, near silent. "I've made my peace, Rich."
+
George leaned heavily against Ringo. He was drunk, out of his mind. They'd needed time, together, just the two of them. They wanted to invite Paul, but he had become so distant.
Ringo had never been more sure that he and John had had the same... thing, that Ringo and George themselves had.
"I just can't believe he's gone. Just like that." The younger man hung his head, eyes hooded. "I never got to really apologize."
Ringo stroked George's hair gently. "He knew, George. Trust me, he knew."
George turned tear-filled eyes up towards Ringo's face. The drummer held his own tears back, for the good of the man leaning against him.
He knew they would spend the night in a hotel, tonight.
+
He couldn't be strong, anymore. Not now.
Paul held him as he cried silently. Paul understood.
"He told me to tell you that he loved you still," Paul said quietly into the drummer's hair.
Ringo gulped, trying to control himself, and nodded slowly against Paul's shoulder.
"He's in a better place, now. If any of us would, it would be him."
Ringo pulled away, taking a shaky breath, and met hazel eyes. "I miss the way things were."
Paul hung his head. "So do I."
+
Ringo slipped back as the rose petals fell from the ceiling. This was it. His final good-bye. A hearty 'see you on the other side'. He hoped George was listening.
Eric approached him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Eric had known, George had told him. About everything. Eric knew, and so Ringo let the guitarist hug him as they cried their good-byes.
+
George's weight on his chest was comfortable. Warm breath against the hollow of Ringo's throat, messy hair tickling his nose. The hotel was silent, it was as if they were alone, forever.
"Tell me you love me," George whispered into Ringo's skin, as if he wasn't aware the words were aloud.
"I love you."
George pulled back to meet his eyes. Ringo smiled, moving one hand to brush sweaty hair out of George's eyes.
"Love me forever. No matter what."
Ringo wrapped both arms around George's skinny frame and held him close, sighing into his hair.
"Always."
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