Written for Paula C for the 2008 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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The air in the room was heavy with smoke, residual nicotine and tetrahydrocannabinol so thick they were almost visible, doing intricate little mind-wandering dances in the curls of smoke drifting from half-smoked cigarettes and joints, slowly dying in ash-trays and coming dangerously close to burning stained fingers. John was as good as out cold, with a bow on his head and a piece of colored tissue paper draped across his shoulders like a make-shift cape, tucked with great care into his shirt collar. If the mumble-hum coming from Paul was any indication, he was still awake, but seeing as he was hanging upside down off the front of the settee, and his eyes were closed, he was quite out for the count as well. Ringo was still quite conscious, alternately examining the burning end of a joint and the sprig of mistletoe someone had hooked into the chandelier over the dining table, which is where Ringo was currently lying. With Paul on the couch, and bottles all across the floor filling up any space Ringo might have lie down in, the table had seemed like the best idea. The mistletoe had started the night hanging on John's belt, and he'd tried to get everyone who'd come through the door the make good on the tradition until Paul had smacked him sharply across the back of the head, sending his glasses flying. The bassist had snatched the sprig of green and white and climbed onto the table to put it on the chandelier, so no one could be caught unawares. Once retrieving his glasses, John had tackled Paul off of the table, and they'd broken at least three glasses during their fall and subsequent roll about. This was on Ringo's mind as he watched the joint burning steadily closer to his fingertips. The giddy look on their faces, the way Paul was giggling even though he'd cut open his finger. Once they'd both realized they were bleeding, they'd traipsed, arm in arm, into the bathroom to put plasters on one another's cuts. They'd probably ended up kissing bruises, too. Ringo squeaked audibly when something thumped on the table. He dropped the joint, jerked as the burning cherry landed on his own arm, swatting at it to make the burning stop. George rasped a giggle, flicking the joint away. It skittered across a foot or so of the expansive tabletop, hissing out in a puddle of beer. "My 'ero." Ringo smiled, reaching up with a damp hand to pat George's cheek. He only just now realized how warm it was in the room. George's pant-legs were damp too, where his knees pressed against Ringo's skin where his shirt was riding up. Ringo wasn't sure whether it was spilt beer or sweat. "Happy Christmas, Rich. What'cha lookin' at?" Ringo stretched slightly, wiggling between George's pinning knees, pointing towards the chandelier. "John's mistletoe." "Ah." George arched, letting his head fall back to eye the mistletoe thoughtfully. Ringo was promptly distracted by George's throat. "I'd forgotten." Ringo wetted his lips thoughtfully, momentarily entertaining the image of wetting George's lips. George, in his inexplicable way, looked back down through a haze of smoke and wispy curls and smiled darkly. Ringo had maybe a moment to think before George's lips were on his, and Ringo smiled into the kiss as he got to trace the flavor of rum and coke off George's lips, sneaking past his defenses to run his tongue along George's fang-tooth. George pulled out of the kiss with a gasping giggle, collapsing against Ringo's chest. "Scamp." "Yer one to talk." "I got ya' somethin'." Ringo blinked. He'd expected at least five more minutes of charged banter, and then maybe some more kissing. "What?" "A gift. For th'oliday." "You din't have to do that, George." "You got me somethin'." "Well, yeh, but I always do get you lads things. You didn't get John anything. Or Paul." "I wanted to get you something. John and Paul have enough things." "Ah, George..." George put a hand over Ringo's mouth, setting a tiny parcel on Ringo's chest. "Shut up and open the damn gift, Rich, 'fore I make ya'." Ringo frowned a bit under George's hand, but there was a smile in his eyes, so George nudged their noses together and rolled off the table, landing as easily in a chair as if he'd simply sat in it. Even drunk, George was the most graceful of them all. Ringo sat up, blinking in the mostly-dim room. Paul and John had broken one of only two lamps at some point during the night. They always seemed to take these holidays away from home the hardest. He examined the tiny package. It was wrapped about as carefully as George could wrap anything. Graceful, but not terribly adept at such finicky things as wrapping gifts. But the fact that he'd at least tried to make the package look nice, with a little loop of ribbon and all, made a warm fuzzy-slipper feeling light in Ringo's stomach, gentler than a butterfly. He slipped the loop of ribbon off, and picked carefully at the sellotape holding the edges of paper down. He didn't want to tear into something that George had so obviously spent more time on than he usually did on things like this. Once the paper was carefully removed and folded, Ringo found himself looking at a tiny velveteen box, something he recognized well as a jewelry box, most probably for a ring. "George..." He glanced. The guitarist had a familiar impish look on his face. Ringo remembered it fondly from the first night he'd met the boy, eyeing him with that same sparkle in his eye. At that moment, in a dreary damp club in Hamburg, Ringo had known, somehow, that something was going to happen between him and the scrawny teen. Oh, if he'd only known. He eased open the box, and carefully pulled the ring from its pillow bed. It was plain enough, a fairly narrow gold band, with just a tiny fleck of a black stone that on close examination was shaped like a five-pointed star. "Ah, George, it's wonderful." Ringo tried it on several of his fingers, and found it fit best on the fourth finger of his left hand. He looked at George with a laugh in his throat. He wasn't sure whether George knew his ring sizes, or if it was just chance. "You proposing' to me, George?" George grinned again. "I 'adn't planned on it, but if you're willing." Ringo tried to slip off the table as gracefully as George had. He missed impressively, slamming into George. The chair tipped over backwards with an impressive crash. Paul shifted on the couch, slumping off to the floor and landing across John, who barely moved. He mumbled something into John's hair. "No, John, not in yer aunt's bed." George and Ringo looked at each other, scrambling to the floor so as not to be caught. They heard John grunt in approval (or maybe coercion), and burst into quiet laughter. They tiptoed past the scrambled spread of limbs on the floor, peeking out the window to the New York winter. Their room was high enough that they could see the snow fluttering past, catching sight of tiny flakes like tiny molecules before they made it to the rushes of warmth blowing in the wake of cars, melting into slush on the sidewalks. Ringo reached for George's hand, George's long arms wrapped over his shoulders, clasping over his heart. "Happy Christmas, George."
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