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Chapter Text

"I thought we were very possessive of each other in a way."

                                                                     Ringo Starr, 1977

George was excited as he drove towards Sunny Heights.

Sure, the sun was trying to boil him alive this late July afternoon, but it helped sitting in the car with the window down and letting the wind play with his hair. Besides, for someone who’d just gotten used to the Asian sun, it only felt mild at best. He glanced at the hand resting on the steering wheel. His skin had always tanned very easily, and his stay in India was no exception.

Brian might not be very pleased about it. Brian wasn’t too happy when they suddenly changed their appearances, with regards to pictures and fans and the like, but George found it hard to care at the moment. He wished he could’ve stayed longer in India. He knew it’d been good for him. All the meditation had refined and expanded his mind, and the people had been so generous and respectful. They gave a man peace and privacy when he needed it. They understood that over there.

Not like here, he thought, scowling as he drove past what he instantly recognised as fans on their way to scout for the elusive Beatles. What a waste of time. They should do something productive instead. Like meditating. Maybe that’d make them cut out the screaming too; calm them down a bit. Meditation’s certainly helped me calm down, he reflected, as a woman had to jump out of the way to avoid his aggressive manoeuvres. With a little persuasion he was sure he could get John, Paul and Ringo hooked on it as well. Especially if he got them to read some of his books. He’d barely had time himself to open the religious texts he’d brought home, but what he’d read so far was both interesting and beautiful and filled with meaning, and he couldn’t wait to show the others!

They weren’t gonna start working on the album till tomorrow, but Ringo had invited everyone to come over for a hangout at his place today, so they could catch up with George and discuss the early drafts for the songs. George felt optimistic about this album. He suspected John and Paul would be open to having some Indian instrumentals on this one as well. George couldn’t see why they would object. It’d worked well enough on their last album, hadn’t it? Granted, looking back on it now, with how much he’d learned from Shankar since then, George felt slightly embarrassed at his past endeavours with the sitar. Hopefully he could remedy that on this album. He tasted the name now as he made the last turn before Ringo’s.

Revolver.

He liked it; in the same way he’d liked the name Rubber Soul. It sounded unique, but also like it was always meant to be called that. Very much like what they taught in Hinduism, about fate and such. He wondered what the others would say if he mentioned that.

George snorted. No, he knew exactly what they would say. Paul would probably be mildly interested, until some melody or harmony or tralla-la-la-la-li-dy entered his brain and he’d start frantically searching for a guitar or a piano. John could go either way. He could either find it the most fascinating piece of information he’d ever heard and be completely invested for the next four months, or he could shrug and declare it rubbish and forget all about it. And Ringo wouldn’t care whatsoever.

Luckily, George had a good connection with the Asian Music Circle stationed in London. If George ever felt the need to discuss some religious stuff or recruit some Indian musicians for one of his songs, he could find some kindred spirits there. In fact, he was going over there later tonight.

But first …

He felt a tug at his lips as he turned into the driveway. He could see Ringo’s three cars all parked neatly in a row, with Paul’s Aston Martin parked at such an angle as to box them all in, the door on the driver seat carelessly left open. George shook his head. Once, he’d seen Paul park his car in the middle of a road. Worst part was he’d managed to sweet talk the meter maid out of a ticket as well, like he always did. George knew, cause he’d been on hand to see it, all the while thinking: How the fuck does he do it every single time?

He couldn’t see John’s Rolls anywhere, so that meant he’d probably just walked, seeing as he lived so close. Which was a good thing. Paul’s abysmal parking abilities were only rivalled by John’s, who liked to park his car “where it took him”, which he thought sounded deep and mysterious and they knew meant that John had driven without his glasses again.

They must’ve heard him arrive, cause Ringo opened the door just as he locked the car. “Is that a Beatle or a guru in me driveway?”

“Bit of both,” George couldn’t help but snicker. Had it been anyone else it would’ve sounded like an insult, but not when it came from Ritchie. A quick once-over told him that Ringo hadn’t changed much these past six weeks. His hair was a tad bit longer so that he looked more and more like a budding Beethoven, but that was about it. “How you been, Ringo?”

“Oh, same old, same old. Heat’s botherin’ me a bit, and Mo’s parents just left a few days ago, so I’m feelin’ a bit tired at the moment. C’mon in. Did ya get the packet we sent?”

George was glad he had to bend down to take off his shoes so Ringo wouldn’t see him rolling his eyes. His parting words before George left the continent had been filled with vague, very unreliable warnings about Indian food (“Mo’s mum’s friend’s husband exploded his liver down there after eatin’ one of them curries”). Consequently, a box the size of a Leslie speaker filled with baked beans and biscuits had arrived from Ringo a few weeks in. With a note telling him that he missed him and assuring him that John and Paul had promised to send similar gifts. They had sent him things, but not exactly life-saving food, or whatever they’d told Ringo.

John had sent a letter where most of the page was dedicated to a naughty sketch of a female streaker running around the pitch after England won the World Cup. The rest of the space was filled with barely eligible writing where the only thing George could make out was that John was “high off me fuckin’ mind George!” and that Paul had acquired a “ghastly beast” whose only redeeming quality was that it was gonna be called Knickers. Finally, he added that Cyn and Julian missed him and that he shouldn’t eat curries cause “Ringo’s mum’s tits had exploded after eatin’ one”.

From Paul he’d also received a letter; with a photo of a beaming Paul out somewhere on a country road, holding the “ghastly beast” and informing him that John had suggested Knickers for a name, but Jane wasn’t too keen on it, and they might go for something else. The rest of the letter consisted of him waxing lyrical about Stockhausen and the joys of living in Swingin’ London. In the PS at the end, he’d told George not to “dilly-dally” on his return, as maybe-Knickers wanted to meet him, and that it was best to avoid curries, cause “Ringo’s stepdad had exploded after eatin’ one”.

George hadn’t missed the other Beatles too much in India. There’d simply been too much happening every day and too much to learn and absorb. But he’d missed them then, after reading the letters. He could hear John and Paul’s voices now, floating in from the drawing room:

“… just didn’t think Knickers was the best name for her.”

“But Martha??! Seriously, Paul; Martha?!”

“I like Martha!”

“You know how much I despise that thing, but even I have to feel sorry for it now. It’s gonna think it’s a grandma already, with that name.”

“Jane likes it.”

“There we go! I knew it wasn’t your idea to change the name! Admit it Paul, that girlfriend of yours got no sense of humour. Incompatible, that’s what the two of you are. Better to make a clean break for it now while ya can and go huntin’ for someone who’s not such a stiff.”

“Got anyone in mind, have ya?”

“I might.”

Someone distinctly feminine cleared their voice. “Well, I think Martha’s a lovely name, Paul. It’s got such a sweet sound to it. Like an old, kind soul.”

“Thanks, Mo!”

John’s voice grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “women” before George and Ringo finally entered the room and him and Paul raised their heads in sync, and still in sync, their faces lit up. George felt his own face crack in a huge grin.

“There he is! Look at ‘im! Almost looks like a native already! Does he speak in an accent as well?”

“Brrrackets!”

“Ah, no. Still afflicted with the same old Liverpudlian, I see.”

“Good on him. That accent’s the only reason the birds like him.”

“That and the eyebrows. Don’t forget my eyebrows.”

“Your eyebrows don’t look as ridiculous as usual. You must’ve shaved them or somethin’.”

“What are ya on about? That brow is so thick magpies could be nestin’ in there. Wear your glasses, will ya?”

“Sod off, Ringo. The sphinx called, by the way. She wants her nose back.”

“Just give her yours, same difference.”

“Piss off.”

No, thought George with a wry smile, they hadn’t changed at all. Apart from a few additions to their wardrobe and their hair looking a bit longer and thicker like Ringo’s, they all looked the same, sounded the same, acted the same, and George felt himself fall into the familiar rhythm of their banter as easily as breathing.

Clearly the months off had done them all some good, cause the ideas were being hurled around like jelly-babies while sitting around Ringo’s couch. After a brief catch-up on George’s trip and a collective mocking of all the papers for speculating about their imminent break-up, they all hunkered down and brainstormed. They agreed to start working on one of John’s more experimental songs tomorrow. John had been inspired by a new psychedelic book by this psychiatrist-fella and was now trying to explain his ideas for ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ as fast as they popped into his head. Difficult to do, as he was patting his pockets for cigarettes, matches, and for something to write with at the same time.

“I want a thousand Tibetan monks chanting and— Fuckin’ hell, Mo, don’t you have any pen and paper in this house?”

Mo, who was painting sequins out on the terrace with the door slightly ajar, calmly told him that there were sticky notes and a pen on the shelf under the table, and that John would’ve probably spotted them if he’d worn his glasses. John squinted his way to the items while grumbling something along the lines of “everyone bein’ on me back”. He started scribbling down the structure of the song in the most unstructured way, until Paul snatched the pen out of his hand to make it all readable. Paul had mapped out his own ideas for the song…and for half the album from the sounds of it.

“We should use those tape loops I’ve been talkin’ about! Stockhausen swears by them; you get this really cool sound goin’… Also, John and I’ve been workin’ on a song for you, Ringo, this really catchy sea-chanty… it’s about a yellow submarine, you’ll love it… There’s this song I wrote about pot as well… And this doctor who hands out drugs that John came up with… Wait, I’ll play it for you —!”

Paul stopped his furious scrawling to jump out of the couch and search for an instrument, even though they all knew Ringo only possessed a drum kit and that it was in an entirely different part of the house. Paul, however, tended to forget details like that when he was enthused, and right now he was bouncing around the room like a goddamn bunny on prellies.

While watching Paul’s antics, George leaned towards John, who’d finally found a packet of ciggies in one of his pockets and matches in another.

“That song of yours, I was just thinkin’… It might sound good with an Indian sound on it, y’know? Like a sitar or a tambura or somethin’—”

“Yea, I guess we’ll see,” said John distractedly, too busy lighting his cigarette and smiling fondly at Paul’s mounting frustration.

Oh, well. I’ll just try again later when John’s more focused. Previously it might’ve bothered him slightly, but recently George felt so enlightened he was sure nothing would ever bother him again. Instead, he went over to a chest of drawers where he knew Ringo kept a stack of records, leafing through them with mild interest. Meanwhile, Paul had finally remembered whose house this was and was now bemoaning Ringo’s “uncivilized ways” (which meant not having instruments in every single room).

“I won’t have any useless toys lyin’ about and cluttering up the house, Paul!” said Ringo indignantly, and Mo looked up from her work with narrowed eyes like she was seriously considering chucking her paint palette in Paul’s face if he ever dared criticize her home again. When it looked as if Paul was gonna open his mouth to do just that, John hurriedly intervened.

“We’ll just go over to my place, then. I’ve got all the little toys and trinkets Paul could ever dream of. You comin’, George?”

“Actually, I gotta go. I’m meetin’ someone at seven,” George announced without looking up from the Lee Dorsey record he was inspecting. The pressing silence that followed this made him eventually tear his eyes away from it to find that the others were all gawping at him in various states of shock. “What?”

Ringo was the first to recover. “You don’t wanna hang out with us anymore?” he asked, blue eyes round in disbelief.

George blinked. How was that the logical conclusion from what he’d just said…

“No,” he said slowly. “I’d just made plans already, that’s all.”

“And pray tell, what sort of plans are these and who are involved?” John enquired, all formal like he was a police officer and George was under investigation for disturbing the peace.

“Anil.”

There was a stunned pause from all of them before someone (Ringo again) regained the ability to speak.

“Anal?? George, I didn’t… is this something you started doin’ in India? I didn’t know you were into that,” he finished, slightly awkward.

George blushed furiously, especially when John and Paul both gave him looks that were partly surprised, partly curious, and partly interested.

“Not anal, you idiot! Anil! With an ‘I’! Anil Bhagwat! You met him last year while we were recording ‘Norwegian Wood’! He’s a tabla player who lives in London! I’m gonna go and play with him and a bunch of other Indian musicians at seven. That’s why I’m busy!”

“Ah,” was Ringo’s profound reply to that outburst, still eyeing George up and down like he didn’t quite believe him.

George cleared his throat to break the strained silence. “Besides, I’m gonna hear the songs tomorrow anyway, when we get to the studio.”

“Well,” John exclaimed suddenly, pulling an exaggerated drag from his cigarette and blowing the smoke in George’s direction. “Three of us need to get goin’ then. Can’t stand around here when Paul’s itchin’ to show off and George’s too busy with Anal—

“Anil”

“— to pay him the courtesy of marvelling at his skilful hands. C’mon, Macca, I’ll come and appreciate ya.”

George could only stare in bafflement as John gathered the chaotic mess of sticky notes (Paul had to do it in the end, cause John couldn’t see shit), all the while Paul skewered him with a wounded glare; as if George hadn’t seen Paul show off his skilful hands a thousand times before (that sounded wrong somehow, but George couldn’t figure out why). The other three all stepped out onto the terrace to vault the railing and walk across the lawn to John’s.

“Have fun with Anal Baghdad or whatever,” John called out.

“Anil Bhagw—”

But they’d already gone. Leaving George to wonder what the hell had just happened. After trying and failing to make sense of it himself, he figured he could ask Mo. Women were sometimes better at reading these social situations.

“What the hell just happened, Mo?”

Mo didn’t look up from her painting. “You into anal stuff now, George?”

After the rather abrupt ending at Ringo’s, it felt good to return to the familiarity of Abbey Road. The studio was like a second home to all of them now, with its high, white walls and wooden floors. Instruments of all kinds and sizes lying haphazardly in wait until they were needed. Cords and microphones and speakers arranged in a “chaotic, but beautiful mess”, as John called it. It was a mess they understood, cause this was their little kingdom, where they ruled supreme with nothing but the gentle advice from George Martin ever swaying their decisions. Even though The Beatles had been away for over a month, the place still smelt of tea and tobacco, like an echo of their presence. They were back where they belonged, and yesterday’s awkwardness became a faded memory as they started working on another album.

At least that was the case, until the very end of the session, when Paul suggested they’d all go over to his place so George could finally meet Martha ("Why would anyone wanna meet that ghastly beast, Paul?"), and George informed them that he’d planned to meet up with some guys from the Asian Music Circle again.

Paul fumbled a chord on his bass when he heard it, which was so out of the ordinary that George felt compelled to look up from his guitar. Paul was staring at him with a blank expression, calm and smooth and dangerous under the surface.

“You don’t wanna meet Martha?” The underlying tone made it sound as if George had just refused to see Paul’s firstborn.

“It’s not that I don’t wanna meet her, it’s just that… does it have to be today? When I’ve made plans?” George busied himself with angling his Gibson carefully up against the wall and missed the alarmed three-way communication that was taking place around the room.

“She’s been lookin’ forward to meetin’ you,” said Paul, completely serious.

“That’s bollocks. Dogs can’t look forward to meetin’ someone they don’t know yet.”

“Martha can.”

George rolled his eyes at John and expected some sympathy from that side of the room at least, but was met with a furrowed brow and contradictory opinions instead.

“She’s absolutely adorable, George. I dunno why you don’t wanna meet her.”

“You just called her a ghastly beast!”

“Well, she’s got some redeeming qualities. Her name’s Martha, so that’s pretty good. I like that.”

“That's not what you've been —!”

Ringo interrupted his rant. “Aren’t dogs sacred in India, George? Shouldn’t you go worship at Martha’s paws? Or am I mixin’ it up with some other animal. I can’t remember.”

George had to close his eyes and take a few calming breaths. Serenity, he thought. Meditation. It’d been foolish of him to think that he’d never be bothered by anything ever again. As if that was possible around here. Enlightenment could never survive these lot!

“Do whatever you want, but I’m off. See ya tomorrow, lads. Say hello to Martha for me.” George prayed that would be the end of these weird interactions they’d been having lately.

His prayers were in vain, because three different plans were starting to take shape in the heads of three different mop tops.

Over the next few days, George noticed that Ringo was acting weird. It started with him wanting to borrow a few of his religious books. George was delighted of course, although it did come as a surprise. Ringo wasn’t exactly one for books, and especially not theological ones. But George, who’d been hoping that his passion would infect the others, was more than happy to lend him two or three of his most beloved volumes.

Then one day, not too long after he’d given Ringo the books, he arrived at Abbey Road to find Ringo taping up a drawing of a cow on the wall.

It was a nice cow. A normal, black-and-white English cow, standing in the middle of a field and looking forlornly out at them, like she too was surprised to find herself on the walls of EMI studios.

“What’s with the cow?” Paul wondered.

“That’s not a cow, that’s you, mate. See how long those lashes are?”

Paul nudged him so George lost his balance and stepped into the ashtray. “What’s with the cow, Ringo?” he repeated, louder this time to drown out George’s swearing.

Ringo tried to seem nonchalant, but didn’t quite pull it off. “Oh, y’know. I’m into cows lately. They’re…uh…cool.”

“Try sayin’ that ten more times and it might sound convincing,” John snorted.

Ringo ignored John and focused on finishing taping up the cow. John, Paul and George looked at each other and shrugged. A cow every once in a while wouldn’t make a difference.

But then more cows started appearing. Sometimes they’d come into the studio to find a whole herd of them around the room. Big cows, small cows, majestic cows with horns that were draped in red silk, and cows that’d been hastily sketched and looked more like donkeys. For the most part, they were all recognisable as Ringo’s artistry. But every now and then a magnificent cow in sequin painting would appear, meaning that Maureen had also taken part in Ringo’s sudden admiration for the herbivores.

At first, they were spread out around the room, but lately George noticed that they seemed to congregate on the part of the wall where his guitars were leaning. This wouldn’t’ve been an issue at all, had it not been for the creepy nature of the drawings themselves.

None of the cows were in profile. None of the cows were grazing or sleeping or looking out into the distance. They were all portraits of cows staring directly at you like they’d been lined up for mugshots. And they all seemed to be in various states of depression, judging by the despair in their eyes. Whenever George turned down an evening with the Beatles to meet Anil or the other Indian musicians, he’d feel the cows glaring accusingly as he was about to leave, mirrored in Ringo’s mournful face. When George couldn’t take it anymore and moved his guitars to the opposite wall, the cows followed him to that side as well. Silently reproaching him for trying to escape their judgement.

Finally, he decided to confront Ringo about it, and caught him one morning when he arrived early, trying to hang up a drawing of the biggest, saddest cow yet, right next to his favourite guitar.

“Ritchie, what the fuck is up with the cows, huh?!”

Ringo startled and dropped the clearly suicidal creature. “What do you mean?” he said, a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? Look around this place! Why’s the studio become a bloody cattle farm all of a sudden?”

Ringo dutifully looked around the place and then back at George. “You don’t like it?”

“Not really, no. I mean, two or three cows is alright, but you must’ve taped up fifty on this wall alone. And why do they all look so miserable?”

“Isn’t that what all religious paintings look like? They’re all so serious and miserable looking all the time, ‘least the ones I’ve seen.”

“…. What?”

Ringo blushed and avoided his stare, looking up at the cows instead and apparently not finding solace in their expressions either, so he settled for studying his drums.

“Oh, y’know. I was readin’ in one of them books of yours that cows are sacred to Hindus or somethin’. Had to do with nature …I didn’t understand all of it, but it sounded quite nice. I didn’t mind it, cause I like cows, y’know? They’re decent. And I thought… cause you’ve been so busy hangin’ out with those Indian fellas lately, that maybe you’d like somethin’ to remind you of India or Hinduism around here. Cause we can do the same stuff that they do! We can learn to meditate and eat vegetables (but no curry; explodin’ liver, remember?) and worship cows and play sitar and stuff. We can do all that, so you can just do all that stuff with us instead of with them!” Ringo finished happily.

George needed some time to digest all of this. In fact, he needed several minutes. Those several minutes were spent debating whether he should bother finally telling Ringo that curries did not make your liver explode. Or that Hindus did not spend their time drawing suffering-looking cattle and pinning them on their walls. Or that he was about to lose his shit. But when he peered into Ringo’s kind, eager face there was only one thing he could say.

“I’ll hang out with you a bit more from now on. Been too wrapped up in me own stuff lately. You don’t have to keep drawin’ any more cows.”

Ringo’s relief was palpable. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, then. Cause Maureen was gettin’ a bit tired of painting cows every time I asked her, y’know? I’ll take them all down then, shall I?”

“Please.”

“Yep!”

The cows went home, and Abbey Road went back to normal. For a little while.

Although this little episode soothed Ringo’s concerns for the most part, other members still felt that George was spending too much time on, well, not them. And some of those members took action in rather unusual ways.

A few days after the whole cow debacle, George had agreed to leave the studio early to meet up with Anil. That plan was still in motion when he got to the parking lot, where he realised there would be a slight delay and headed back to the studio where John was doing harmonies for ‘I’m Only Sleeping’.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Reckon you could move your car a bit? You’ve boxed me in.”

“Have I?”

“Yeah, you must’ve driven without your glasses again.”

“Did I?”

Even the most serene Hindu monks would’ve faltered against John Lennon when he was in this kind of mood, and poor George was only a novice.

“Yeah, ya fuckin’ did ya twat! Now get out there and move it, or I’ll be late!”

John held his palms out placatingly. “Temper, temper! So you’re boxed in; so what? Have you considered that maybe you’re meant to be boxed in? Hm?”

He pointed a condemning lyric sheet at him. “Weren’t you preachin’ about that the other day? That ‘everything happens for a reason’? Fate and all that jazz? If you’re boxed in today, George, it’s because you were always meant to be boxed in today. Which is probably God’s way of tellin’ you to stay put and be boxed in today. If you ring Anal —”

“Anil”

“— and explain, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

George was torn between feeling delighted that John had actually listened to his lecture for once, and livid that it was being used against him. The latter won out.

“That’s an interestin’ theory, John. By that logic, if I was to for example ram into your car so hard that it eventually skidded out of the way, you can take comfort in knowing that it was always meant to happen. Your car was always meant to be left a mangled mess today, and I guess this is God’s way of tellin’ you to not move the car.”

John moved the car.

Still, George found it increasingly difficult to leave EMI when he wanted to. His shoes went missing one day, then his car keys, then his pocketbook. It was like some unseen force was working overtime to keep him trapped at the studio. Strange thing was, on days when George decided to hang out with the rest of the Beatles, his belongings would magically appear out of nowhere. In his guitar case, in his guitar, in his teacup, on top of his head. It was driving him bonkers. Nevertheless, he managed to leave when he’d set his mind to it. George was stubborn like that.

And then John offered him the curry.

It happened after George told them he was gonna meet with the same tambura player he’d seen two days in a row now. Paul and Ringo had received the news in stony silence, while John looked positively murderous. For lunch that day he gifted George leftovers from Cynthia’s “home-made” curry.

“I didn’t know Cyn knew how to make curry?”

“She learned it specially for you. She knows how much you love it. Besides, now’s your opportunity to show Ritchie how harmless it is.”

George shrugged. That was a good point.

Twenty minutes later he managed to gasp out that his liver was gonna explode, and then he passed out. He missed the fun of Ringo having a slight panic attack and Paul having to cross-examine John to find out exactly what he’d put into the curry to make George miss out on meeting the tambura player. He did, however, wake up in time for the diarrhea to set in.

“Hey, there.” John grabbed a chair and spun it so the back faced George, straddling the seat and crossing his arms over the backrest.

George groaned. It was a few days after the whole curry incident, and he'd barely had time to recover. He wasn’t sure he’d survive whatever else John had planned for him. John seemed to guess his thoughts, because he rested his chin on his arms with a tired smile and said, “Don’t worry. I’m done with playing cook of the house. No, I was thinkin’ about what you said at Ringo’s the other day, about adding Indian instruments to ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’. Think it’s a good idea. Would really enhance the song, don’t you think?”

George brightened. “Yeah? What made you realise?”

“Hmm? Oh … nothing in particular. I was just listenin’ to your song, that ‘Love You To’ and I thought, fuckin’ hell, George really knows his stuff, doesn’t he? It’s a brilliant song, George.”

George felt his face flush. He glanced over at Paul, who was tuning his Höfner and seemingly not paying attention to anything else. He couldn’t remember the last time John had paid him a compliment, if it’d happened at all, and it dawned on him now that he wasn’t very good at receiving them either. It didn’t help that John was gazing at him unwaveringly with heavy eyelids, looking soft and sleepy and cuddly (cuddly?!).

He swallowed nervously. John tracked the movement. “But since you’re gonna be heavily involved on this album, I guess you’re gonna have to stick around us for the next few days, hm? We’ll work on the songs together, in our free time as well, and you wouldn’t wanna miss out now, do you?”

George nodded emphatically. No, of course he wouldn’t!

John watched him silently for another moment, still smiling softly. Then he sighed and stood up, brushing a hand over George’s hair as he walked by.

A few minutes later George quietly left for the loo, walking rather stiffly. If he’d looked back, he would’ve noticed Paul, who’d actually been paying very close attention to his little chat with John, staring at him with the smug face of a man who’d just figured out a puzzle.

Lunchtime at Abbey Road, and Paul and George were alone in the studio. The Beatles tended to run out of tea and toast several times a day, and for the moment it was John and Ringo’s turn to fetch more from the canteen. George was just wondering if he could perhaps head off to the Asian Music Circle after tomorrow’s session. He hadn’t been over there for a while, what with how busy he’d been with the album. The idea had just started to form in his head when…

“George?”

“Yes, Paul, what is i—”

George turned around and forgot what he was about to say. Whatever it was it withered and died on his tongue. It couldn’t’ve been anything important. What was important, however, was that Paul was wearing John’s glasses. Those black-framed, sleek, Buddy Holly-glasses. They made his eyes seem even bigger than usual, which was quite the feat, considering they filled half his face already. Paul smiled innocently at him and George felt an inexplicable tingle low in his abdomen.

“Why are—" his voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat and try again. Paul was still smiling sweetly. “Why are you wearing….?” Words and thoughts were failing him on a spectacular level, but luckily Paul seemed to sense it.

“John’s glasses?” he finished helpfully. George could only nod.

“I’m trying to make him feel more comfortable with wearing ‘em himself. He’s too insecure about his looks, the silly sod. I for one, I think he’s a looker either way. I think all of us are lookers.” That last bit he said while letting his eyes roam up and down George’s body in a lazy, appreciative manner. George adjusted his guitar a little lower.

“Well,” he eventually managed to formulate, turning away to give his thoughts (and body) a reprieve, “that’s very nice of you.”

“Hmmm…” Paul hummed lowly, and the tone sent a thrill down George’s spine. He felt this insistent need to slink off to the loo like he did after his talk with John.

A few seconds of trying to compose himself proved a few seconds too short when he heard: “George?” Paul’s voice again, a far too-innocent tinge to it.

“Yes?” he said helplessly, turning around to discover that Paul had fetched the sitar and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the instrument in his lap, with that damn smile still stuck to his face.

“Will you help me learn how to play?” he begged.

It sounded harmless enough, was probably harmless enough, but for whatever reason George felt like he was in grave danger.

“I’m— I should— I should really go to the loo,” he said desperately, waving his hand around to vaguely illustrate the loo.

Paul tilted his head, eyes the size of opals. “Please?”

George relented.

It won’t take that long; he told himself as he settled down in front of Paul, guitar firmly placed in front of his crotch. Paul’s one of the most gifted musicians you know. He’s gonna pick this up in no time and then after that you can head to the loo and… do whatever you need doin’.

But on this particular day, Paul displayed not only a lack of musical talent, but also basic motoring skills! He’d apparently lost function in both hands; cause George had to physically take hold of them and place them along the neck, his own hands shaky and clammy as he did so. Strangely enough, Paul didn’t seem troubled at all by how helpless he’d become. He simply smiled that innocent smile and spent just as much time studying George’s face as he did the instrument in his now useless hands.

“Y’know, George,” he said, giving him a sly look again while happily letting him adjust his slender fingers on the frets. “I was thinkin’, maybe you could help me learn how to play properly over the next few days? After we’ve finished recording each day, y’know? What do ya think?”

This up-close George could see Paul’s eyelashes brushing the inside of the glasses. Whatever Paul had said sounded like a very good idea, and he told him so. Focused as he was on agreeing with Paul, he didn’t notice that Paul’s fingers were sliding away from where George had just placed them a second ago, instead slipping around to loosely encircle George’s own hands.

“Great!” Paul beamed and leaned even closer, jet-black fringe falling into his eyes. George leaned closer too, because why not.

“That means you’re probably gonna have to cancel whatever appointments you’ve got coming up. Cause as you can see, I’m not too good at the sitar.” Paul sighed, looking pointedly at his rebellious fingers which were now for some reason softly stroking George’s fingers instead of resting on the strings.

Oh, George didn’t mind helping out! No, George was gonna help Paul master the sitar and get those unruly fingers under control even if they had to arrange sleepovers at Abbey Road! He just needed to make sure he could borrow the key to the loo, and then he could —

He realised Paul had just said something else. George had been too busy observing the tiny freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and feeling Paul’s naughty fingers skimming lightly over his knuckles to listen.

“What?” he asked dazedly.

Paul smiled overbearingly and moved even closer. A playful fingertip tickled his palm and George shivered.

“I said that John and Ringo were gonna head over to mine after tomorrow’s session. You wanna come too? Martha’s dying to meet you. She was so disappointed when you didn’t come last time. And so was I, by the way.”

Those glasses magnified Paul’s eyes so they now seemed bigger than the entire universe. And they were filled with hurt. Hurt because of George. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to not go over to Paul’s that day. It was clearly the place to be!

“Yes,” he said, not recognising his voice for how hoarse it’d become.

“Yes what, George?” Paul murmured, thumb caressing George’s wrist where his poor pulse was trying to keep up with all the sensations. “Yes, you’ll come to my place tomorrow?”

“Yes,” George nodded. “Yes, yeah, I will.”

“And then,” Paul continued, not blinking once, smiling now for George’s benefit so he could see how happy he’d made him, “you promise you’ll teach me the sitar and hang out with the three of us like usual? You probably won’t have time for anyone else, right?”

An index finger brushed teasingly against his own, and George nodded. It was all he could do. Words had escaped him completely at this point, but everything Paul had said sounded like it was the right decision and George wondered why he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“Thanks, George, I knew I could count on you. Can't wait for us to spend some more time together.” Paul smiled again, a smug, triumphant little grin, and gave a gentle squeeze to George’s hands, which, in a complete role reversal, now had to be supported by Paul’s hands. When Paul finally, finally let his eyes and hands slide away, George felt as if he was waking up from hypnosis.

“Didn’t you say you needed to use the loo a while ago? You might wanna hurry. I can hear the others comin’.”

“Oh…. Yeah!” George could hear them now too, walking down the hallway and approaching the studio. He bolted up from the floor, knees buckling from light-headedness, and almost had to whimper at how uncomfortably tight his pants felt around certain … areas. Paul grinned like a mischievous, little fox and played a perfect lick on the sitar, hands as strong and sure as they’d ever been. George didn’t have time to question it. He didn’t have time to explain why he didn’t remove his guitar before going to the loo either, or demand an explanation from Paul as to why he knew that George needed to leave the room before the others returned.

Unfortunately, he met them by the door. Ringo busy balancing a tray of toast and teacups and John busy enjoying a ciggie.

“Where’re you goin’?” John asked promptly, taking a drag from his cigarette and looking him up and down.

“And why’s your face all red?” Ringo chimed in unhelpfully. “You can even see it through your tan.”

“Just…uh…just need the loo real quick.”

“Oh yeah?” John knocked some ash off his ciggie. “Plannin’ on serenading the toilets?” He nodded towards the guitar, hanging unusually low down his body.

George was about to sacrifice his dignity and throw the guitar in John’s irritating face if it meant he would be left in peace for once. But then Paul’s calm voice came from inside the studio:

“C’mon now, fellas. George’s got a lot on his mind at the minute. He and I just had a little chat, and he’s agreed to spend some quality time with us for the rest of the foreseeable future and probably needs to go rearrange some plans. No wonder he’s distracted.” George could hear Paul’s grin.

Ringo seemed to perk up at that.

“I knew you’d come to yer senses, George!” he cheered, whistling ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ as he strolled into the studio before George could ask him what he’d meant by that.

John, who’d let his eyes wander from Paul wearing his glasses to George with his guitar by his knees, seemed to have reached a dangerous conclusion. “Oh, I’m sure it was a hard decision to make, right? Why don’t you run off to the loo before it gets any harder, yeah?”

George did run off to the loo. But not before he heard John’s stern voice as he entered the room. “You are a shameless little slag, Macca. Now wipe that smirk off your face and gimme my glasses.” Paul’s reply was to play the opening sitar riff for ‘Norwegian Wood’ pitch perfect.

The last thing George thought before he slipped discreetly (as discreetly as possible with a Fender clutched at his front) into the restroom of Abbey Road, was that he could finally sympathize with the poor meter maids who had to fine, and then be sweet talked, by Paul McCartney.

When asked by the press about the overall mood within the band while working on their newest album, Beatles manager Brian Epstein was happy to report that aside from the usual, petty bickering anyone would expect from four boys, as a group they were “closer than ever”.

Chapter Text

1965

“You ready, Ritchie?”

Ringo had a split second to contemplate whether he should stick the cigarette on the tip of the hi-hat to save it for later, or if he should let it dangle between his lips. When John asked you if you were ready, you better be ready! He settled for the latter. It’d looked cool when he did it in Help! anyway.

Paul counted them in. “One, two, three, four…”

“He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land…”

It was the 21^st of October, and The Beatles were busy recording for their next album, Rubber Soul.

They were currently working on John’s latest creation, ‘Nowhere Man’. A strange song, in Ringo’s humble opinion. An opinion he didn’t necessarily voice out loud, as the last time he’d shared his “less than favourable” thoughts on a Lennon/McCartney composition, the duo had given him what Bob Wooler had famously coined the “Leopold and Loeb”-look. After Ringo was done praying for his life, he’d wisely decided to keep his opinions to himself from then on.

I should learn from George, he surmised. The Leopold and Loeb-look never worked on George. Whenever George dismissed one of their songs, John and Paul would try to give him “the look”. The problem was that George would reply with a look of his own. A look that made Paul grit his teeth and say, “I wouldn’t expect you to get it, George. You’re so young, after all.”

Which in turn made George glare and respond, “That’s a grotty shirt you’re wearin’ there, Paul. Who d’ya snag it from? Auntie Gin?”

Which then made John fume and say, “He got it from me, actually, ya knobhead. And he looks fab in it, thank you very much!”

Which prompted Ringo to huff and snap, “Fuck’s sake, just shut up and get on with it! Before me arse glues itself to me drum stool!”

And this finally united the others so that they turned on him instead. “If your arse glues itself to your drum stool, it’ll be a significant improvement on your arse!”

 It's not that I don’t like the song even, it’s just … strange is all, Ringo mused to himself as he smashed the cymbal one last time, letting the sound fade away naturally. After all, ‘Nowhere Man’ didn’t have any girls in it at all! It wasn’t even about love! When he’d quietly pointed this out to Paul, he’d just given him a stern look and told Ringo that it was “important for John to find himself right now”, whatever the hell that meant.

Ringo had a good mind to tell Paul that it was “important for Paul to pull his head out of his arse”, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Paul might get his own back by writing a vengeful tune about a certain drummer who’d thought he’d composed a new song last week, only to realise that this “new song”, was in fact a well-known Dylan-song. And knowing Paul’s talent, it would become an inescapable hit that would haunt Ringo for the rest of his life.

“You alright?” George’s drawling voice, slightly muffled from a ciggie, ripped him out of his ruminations.

“Oh! …Yeah! Just … uhh … worried about the weather,” he said lamely. George blew some smoke out his nose before doing a deliberately slow turn to really take in the windowless walls of EMI studios.

“Oh, aye. And how’s it lookin’?”

Ringo glared. “Dunno. There’s a raincloud with unibrow that’s blockin’ the view.”

“Sounds like a cool raincloud.” George tapped ash from his ciggie directly onto the snare drum, ignoring Ringo’s curses, and turned to make a beeline for the sitar standing inconspicuously in the corner. Soon enough, new and exotic sounds quivered and twanged through the air.

Ringo sulked. He’d hoped that with John and Paul acting so weird all of a sudden, that he and George could stay the same at least. He’d always been close with George. He’d even been the one to nab him for The Beatles from Rory and the Hurricanes. But then George had found this strange new hobby with the Indian music, and now Ringo was at a loss. It seemed like the other three had grown and evolved without him noticing and he was unsure who to blame for this. He felt like he was falling behind. Or that the others were leaving him behind. Like they left you behind when they went to Australia, a cruel voice reminded him. They had no problem getting someone else instead.

That was different, a nicer, much more likable voice countered. They got rid of that useless, brick-faced, opportunistic, too-busy-talkin’-to-the-birds-to-keep-rhythm-Jimmie Nicol as soon as you recovered.

Did they even write a song for you on this album? the cruel voice (did it ever shut up?) chimed in again. That’d always been the usual norm. But perhaps they didn’t care to anymore. Perhaps they didn’t miss his voice on the record.

He sighed. Sometimes, he missed Liverpool and The Cavern. Things had seemed so much easier back then.

It was a sentiment that lingered on the next day as well.

At least until an old friend came to visit.

“RITCHIE, LAD!!!”

Ringo dropped his lighter in shock and didn’t have a chance to pick it up before someone smacked him on the arm, hard enough to bruise. He smiled even before he turned, cause he recognised the face that went with that voice, and sure enough, there he was: Alan Caldwell, widely known as Rory Storm. Former bandmate and the best bloke in England.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate! How long’s it been? Where did you come from?”

“Liverpool, of course, ya melon! We’ve got a gig comin’ up at the Bag O’Nails day after tomorrow. Thought I’d pop in and see how you lot were gettin’ on in the meantime. Gotta say, mate,” he mused, swivelling his blonde head around the studio in admiration, “this place ain’t too shabby! I wouldn’t mind — … Oh.”

He’d finally spotted George, who was slumped in a chair, silently observing them with a scowl adorning his face while tuning his Gibson.

“Alright, George?” Rory asked, voice just a tad bit colder than when he greeted Ringo. George gave a curt nod. “Alright. How’s your sister?”

Ringo coughed nervously. Sure, The Beatles and The Hurricanes had been friendly rivals back in the day, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Rory had never quite forgiven George for luring Ringo away to The Beatles. Or for dating and then dumping his sister, Iris. Or Paul, for dating and then dumping his sister, Iris. Perhaps it was a good thing Paul was out right now. Him and John were doing an interview. Ringo just hoped it didn’t turn out that John, as well, had at some point dated and then dumped Rory’s sister, Iris.

“So,” he said, desperate to distract Rory from thoughts of his sister, Iris, being mercilessly dumped by half The Beatles, “where’re the rest of the Hurricanes?”

“Not here yet,” Rory replied, tearing his sister-avenging eyes away from George. “I came down a day early to try and get a ticket for tomorrow’s game. West Ham vs Liverpool, y’know?” He gave a frustrated sigh and ran calloused fingers through his carefully coiffed hair. “No luck so far, though.”

Ringo shook his head. He’d never understood Rory’s obsession with footy. Or anyone’s obsession with footy for that matter.

Rory clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Guess that means I’ll hang out with you instead! Been too long since we’ve had a decent chat, eh? Wanna go to the canteen and have a sit-down with —OOFF!”

Out of nowhere, the neck of a Gibson guitar came hitting Rory in the ribs, knocking his hand off Ringo’s shoulder and making him stagger sideways into the drum kit. It looked like the breath had been punched out of him.

Ringo whirled round. “The fuck was that?!”

George, who could apparently stalk up behind people like a cat in the reeds, readjusted his Gibson and skewered Ringo with an accusatory glare as if this was somehow his fault. “Oops. Sorry, Rory,” he said flatly, not looking or sounding sorry at all.

“S’alright,” Rory growled unconvincingly, straightening up again and massaging his ribs.

Judging by the look he treated George to, it was in fact not alright, and Ringo felt compelled to grab Rory’s arm and steer him in the opposite direction of the moody guitarist.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbled, lighting a ciggie and offering it to Rory as way of a proper apology on George’s behalf.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Rory smiled, cheered up again by the sight of the cigarette brand, which Ringo guessed wasn’t his usual fare. The Hurricanes were local favourites back home, but they couldn’t afford the daily luxuries of The Beatles. “He’s probably just annoyed that I’m distractin’ ya. What with yer bein’ busy with the new album and everything.”

“I’m not that busy,” Ringo muttered. “Some days I’m off the clock completely. Depends if we’ve laid down the drum track early, y’know? Truth is,” he continued, having no idea why he was telling Rory all of this, except maybe cause he was so easy to talk to, “I haven’t had much to do lately. Got a lot of free time on me hand.”

Rory’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Say, you wouldn’t be interested in comin’ with us to The Bag tomorrow, then? Trevor’s a lazy bastard, and he’s been whining about how he “doesn’t like London” and how the London-birds “don’t understand that he’s a comedic genius”, and sure, I agree with him (on not likin’ London, that is), but it’s drivin’ me up the wall! He’s lucky he’s even in the band, cause he sure as hell can’t keep the bloody beat!”

Rory had a habit of puffing smoke like a tank-engine when he was worked up, and he was almost down to the filter already. Ringo wordlessly offered him another ciggie.

“Ta. Point is, I think it’d work out for all parties if someone filled in. So how about it, you wanna— ow!"

A paper bullet had just come shooting through the air and hit Rory square between the eyes. He and Ringo both blinked down at the crumpled wad of paper for a minute, Rory still rubbing the point of impact, before they turned towards the culprit.

George was in his chair again, innocently hunched over his guitar.

“George?”

“Hmm?”

“Why d’ya throw that piece of paper at Rory?”

“Wasn’t me.”

“You’re the only one here besides us.”

George changed tack. “I was aiming for the bin.”

“The bin that’s behind you?”

“… Yeah.”

“Well, you hit Rory instead. Rory’s not a bin now, is he?”

“… Hard to tell.”

Ringo felt quite proud at how he managed to restrain Rory Storm from unleashing a storm of fisticuffs at George’s face after this little exchange.

You had to admire George’s gumption, if nothing else. Rory was five years older than him, and bigger and bulkier besides, but that sort of thing had never fazed George, no matter how scrawny he was. Ringo remembered when he’d first joined the group in ‘62, how George had defended him by throwing a punch at Pete-bloody-Best fans in The Cavern, receiving a black eye as thanks for his trouble. He’d looked so cool and tough the day after when they were recording… wrinkly white shirt and unkempt hair… a black shadow covering half his face… Looking like an actual Teddy Boy, instead of the one Ringo pretended to be.

Perhaps it was that memory that prompted him to hurriedly thrust another cigarette at Rory now as a peace offering, before George got two black eyes and some broken ribs to boot. He also wisely separated them further, so that they were now standing as far away from each other as the room would allow.

“By the way,” George drawled loudly from his end of the studio, “about your cozy chat just now, you should know that we’re gonna be recording your song for the next few days, Ringo. So you might wanna reconsider before you go scuttlin' along on your little date with Rory or whatever.”

Ringo felt a rush of joy flush through him that even distracted from George’s surly tone. “You’ve got a song for me?”

“Course we have! We always do, don’t we?”

“Anyway,” Rory cut in, smoking so furiously fast that if he kept this up, Ringo would be out of cigarettes soon. “That invitation wasn’t just for now, y’know. If ya got the time and feel homesick or the like, why don’t ya come up to The Cavern on a weekend or somethin’? The place would love to have ya. They’d go mad! I mean, the Richard Starkey!”

Ringo didn’t know why that last bit made him blush. Maybe it was because all the focus was on him for once. Maybe it was hearing his actual name in god knows how long. Whatever it was, he needed to say something before Rory noticed his fluster, so he opened his mouth and—

SSSSSCCCCCCCCCCRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Anything Ringo had to say was blown out of his head by what sounded like a wailing banshee in his ear. Both him and Rory clapped their hands over their ears while searching frantically for the source of whatever was surely dying nearby.

The source turned out to be George, and he was far from dying. He’d plugged his guitar into an amplifier, apparently turned it up at full volume, and was playing raging licks at such a brutal speed it was likely to snap the strings. All the while staring at Rory like he wanted to murder him for some reason.

Ringo and Rory’s repeated bellows to “TURN IT DOWN!!!”, were met by George stubbornly mouthing “WHAT??” without any intention of turning it down. Ringo was considering charging across the room to give George that black eye he seemed to crave after all, before Rory seized on the opportunity. Luckily, neither of them had to.

A tall, imposing figure appeared in the doorway. A figure dressed in a spotless suit with a tie that only George would dare criticise. Greying hair combed back, and a face that would’ve made all English aristocrats admit that even the lower classes could show signs of “good breeding”. George immediately quit the noise. Because when the only person John and Paul truly feared and respected gave you that look, your mind went blank.

“Boys. What are you doing?” George Martin’s posh, fatherly voice held an underlying tone that expected obedience from his children, and before Ringo had gathered his thoughts or Rory had recovered from Mr Martin’s commanding presence, George snapped into action, pointing at the two of them.

“Sorry, George. I was just muckin’ about with the amp, you see, and then Ringo and Rory here distracted me so much I didn’t realise I’d turned it all the way up.”

Ringo gaped. You shameless little liar!

George Martin’s eyes softened as they shifted over to Ringo. Paul was his favourite child, but Ringo wasn’t far behind, and it was in a much milder tone he said:

“I see. Well, Ringo, you know our rules. No wives or girlfriends in the studio. It's a terrible distraction for —”

“He’s not Ringo’s wife or girlfriend for fuck’s sake!” George barked, appalled; all previous respect forgotten. “Your eyesight’s almost as bad as John’s!”

“Fuck off,” came the sudden, automatic response from John, and George Martin had to step aside to let him and Paul saunter into the studio, noses buried in a newspaper and heads practically glued together. Ringo groaned quietly. This didn’t bode well…

“Oi!” George piped up, clearly on edge this morning. “Did ya shag the reporter while you were at it? Took ya long enough. When John’s done tryin’ to read and Paul’s done readin’ for him, you lot might notice that we’ve got a visitor.”

John and Paul looked up, John squinting, and Ringo saw both their faces stretch in smiles at the sight of Rory. Paul opened his mouth, hopefully not to ask about Rory’s sister, but George wasn’t finished yet.

“Yeah, Rory’s here to rob Ringo of his ciggies and rob us of Ringo.”

The smiles flickered and died, and Ringo shuddered when he saw what replaced them. Leopold and Loeb. He could hear Rory gulp anxiously beside him, too busy fearing for his life to contradict George.

There was a short, strained silence before Paul turned to John. “Weren’t we gonna work on Ringo’s song today?” he asked pointedly.

“That’s right!” John marched over and grabbed Ringo by the shoulders, pushing him away from Rory and towards the drum kit. “C’mon now, Ritchie! Can’t have ya wastin’ time on random strangers all day. We’ve got a busy schedule on our hands right now!”

“Hold on, hold on, I’ll show Rory out first!” Ringo protested, even as John shoved him resolutely down on his drum stool with such force it was like he was trying to glue his arse to it.

“I’ll do that,” George volunteered, already insistently prodding Rory in the back with the butt end of his Gibson. Rory was forced to stumble past a perplexed George Martin, trying to shield himself from the various jabs while calling out: “Thanks for the hostilit— I mean hospitality, lads. I’ll see ya tomorrow then, Ritchie, yeah?”

“Sure, you’ll see him tomorrow. Bye, Rory. Say hi to your sister for me. Erin, was it? I can’t remember.”

And with a last poke of the guitar, Rory was ejected from the premises, George closing the door behind him so quickly it almost bruised his heels.

The next day they were having so much fun recording Ringo’s song that yesterday’s events were almost forgotten. It wasn’t till late afternoon that he remembered, and asked Mal if there’d been any messages for him.

“Oh, yeah. Now that you mention it. Rory phoned this morning to say that he couldn’t make it today after all. Said George had found him a ticket for that Liverpool match, so he’d be busy. Said to tell George thanks.”

There was a slight blush on George’s cheeks as Ringo scrutinised him. “You found him a ticket, huh? And here I was fancying a date with Rory at that footy game.”

George cleared his throat, plucking strings on his acoustic to weave a sweet melody. “You wouldn’t like it. Not your thing, footy. And besides,” he added, rolling up a sleeve on his rumpled shirt and blowing the fringe out of his eyes; looking every inch like a tough, handsome Teddy Boy; “he’s not your type, anyway.”

1966

Spain was hot. Ringo had gathered as much from trying to decipher John’s handwriting, but it’d still come as an uncomfortable shock when he’d first stepped out of the airplane. It’ll only be for a few days, he’d reminded himself at the time. Just till John’s birthday.

A few days later and he wished John’s birthday would hurry the fuck up. Otherwise, there’d be nothing left of him but melted goo. He better be grateful for this, Ringo seethed as they were driving out to the location in Almería. I’m only here because of him and his stupid neediness.

One other thing he’d been able to interpret from John’s letters, was that John was lonely. It was all “I don’t like the food here”, and “the cast are a bunch of boring sods”, and “Paul’s a selfish prick for not visiting”, and “why’s George in India of all places?” and so it had fallen on Ringo to take the hint and go cheer John up. All the way in Spain.

“You’re too nice,” Maureen had said as she kissed him goodbye before his flight. And Ringo had reflected on that as they flew over France. Was he too nice? Maybe. He still felt he needed to prove his value at times, to the others. A niggling worry he couldn’t rid himself of completely. Which was why when John had called for company, he’d come running (or flying). He couldn’t help it. It felt good to be wanted.

 The “cheering up” he’d done had consisted of waiting for John to come back from shooting and then playing cards and tinkering with melodies till late in the evening. This had cheered John up immensely. The only problem was that now Ringo was lonely, waiting for John all day. Which was why this morning John had suggested that Ringo come with them to the location site.

And so here they were, stuffed into the small backseat of a Bentley, Ringo’s shirt already sticking to his back with sweat and Ringo himself wondering what on earth had possessed him to agree to be trapped in a hot car for thirty minutes, driving down an endless dusty road in the full glare of the Spanish sun. The only positive was that John had offered to sit in the middle. Ringo was grateful for that at least. Because sitting on the other side of John was —

“Are you alright, Ringo?” Michael Crawford’s classically handsome face met his eyes as he leaned forward to speak over John, smiling invitingly.

Ringo gave an uncertain smile in return. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just a bit hot.”

John, annoyed for some reason, leaned forward himself to break off the communication. It there was one man among the cast that contradicted John’s claim of “boring sods”, it was Michael Crawford.

John had introduced him to the charismatic Michael yesterday, when he’d come over for a drink and to harmonise with John. The man had a surprisingly good set of pipes on him. (“Good for singin’,” John allowed. “And good for a blowie, too, according to me makeup artist.” Ringo had spat out his drink at that).

When he’d spotted Ringo, he’d looked mildly stunned for a moment, but then eagerly clasped the hand that wasn’t holding a beer-bottle, saying, “My, my! Is this the famous, Ringo then? John’s told me all about you. Between the three of us, he hasn’t stopped talking about your arrival ever since he heard you were coming.”

Before John had time to feel embarrassed or Ringo had time to feel flattered, Michael had continued, “And now that I see you, who could blame him? In all his stories, he’s failed to mention that you have the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen. Honestly, the Mediterranean Sea itself would get jealous of that colour.”

Ringo had blushed, stammered, coughed, and mumbled something along the lines of, “Paul’s the one with the pretty eyes”, before seeking refuge in another sip of beer. Actors really do have astronomical levels of self-confidence, he’d thought, flustered. I would’ve preferred another beat down in Manila over sayin' something like that. ‘Specially to a bloke.

And then John had piped up, voice snippy and agitated, “Fuck's sake, Mike. At least wine him, dine him, and sixty-nine him before sayin' something like that!”

Ringo had spat out his drink again.

The rest of the evening had been spent with Michael shamelessly trying to flirt with Ringo, John shamelessly trying to kick Michael out of the house for flirting with Ringo, and Ringo shamelessly trying to flirt with six bottles of beer. Only Ringo had made any progress.

I wish I hadn’t, though, he reflected miserably as the car bumped and groaned along the uneven road, making his aching head bump and groan in equal fashion. It was a good thing they arrived just a few minutes later, and Ringo felt some of the grumpiness dissipate when he stepped out of the car and took in the sight of the bustling movie set.

He’d always loved movies. He hadn’t admitted this to anyone, but his favourite experience of being a Beatle, had been doing the movies. And he’d been good at it too! All the papers had said so. Ringo knew, cause he’d secretly clipped out the reviews and underlined the parts about him. (He’d also underlined the parts where they talked about Paul’s acting skills, for whenever he needed a laugh. He liked to read it out loud to Paul when he felt Paul deserved it. Which was about three times a week and twice on Sundays).

He'd been gutted when the other Beatles had decided that enough was enough, no more movies. Which was why he’d been slightly surprised at John’s announcement that he’d accepted a role in Dick Lester’s upcoming war drama How I Won the War, but it was a smart move, in Ringo’s opinion. If The Beatles machine ever came to a standstill, a career in acting wasn’t too far-fetched. And John was good at acting as well…

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Ringo startled. Michael Crawford had sidled up to him, smooth as you like. Ringo shifted, trying to put some distance between them. Michael promptly followed. “I was just thinkin’ about that time we did our own movies. All the excitement, y’know? Brings back a lot of memories,” he said, wishing he had something more profound to say.

Luckily, Michael smiled. He seemed to do that a lot around Ringo. “Ah, yes, I remember those films. You were outstanding in them. Like a young Brando, or a British James Dean,” he crooned, citing Ringo’s favourite actors. Ringo felt his cheeks heat up from more than just the sun. Michael wasn’t finished, though. “You know, Ringo, if you ever want to try your hand at acting again, I have a lot of influential friends in the movie business. I could put in a good word for you, if you’d like?” He placed a subtle hand on Ringo’s back. “Why don’t I give you my number and —”

He stopped himself, looking at where he’d placed his hand, and Ringo realised, horrified, that Michael could feel how his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He took a hasty step out of reach.

“Sorry!” he spluttered, wishing not for the first time that he possessed George’s ability to just not give a damn.

But Michael actually didn't give a damn! Cause he stepped close again and gave a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to be sorry, dear. In fact,” those eyes sparkled with lust as they drew nearer and Michael whispered the next part, “I prefer you sweaty.”

Ringo didn’t know what to say to that. His face did all the talking for him, by blushing worse than Paul did when John paid him a compliment. There’s that self-confidence again.

“But if you truly feel uncomfortable, why don’t you take my shirt? I have to change into uniform anyway, so you can wear it if you like.”

“Oh, I couldn’t —"

“Oh, but you can.” And with that, Michael pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion, standing there bare-chested with bronze-tanned skin and an impressive array of muscles dancing in his taut abdomen. Ringo quickly averted his eyes like he’d been caught reading Playboy, feeling his blush spread to his ears as he peeled off his own shirt and reluctantly accepted Michael’s.

Michael’s smirk broadened as he watched Ringo put it on. “Mmm … I knew it. Blue really brings out the colour in your eyes.”

“Oi! Mike!” Ringo had seldom been so grateful to hear John’s voice before. They turned around. John came sloping towards them, uniform in one hand and a beer-bottle (where’d he get that?) in another. “Dick said to get your arse to hair and makeup right now. They’re waiting for you.”

Michael sighed. “I look forward to seeing you later, dear.” With one last appreciative look at Ringo, he swaggered away. Ringo breathed a sigh himself as he watched him leave, but whether it was from relief or something else, he couldn’t say. Michael sure was … intense. Interesting, but intense.

Further analysis of Michael Crawford would have to wait, however, because John chose that exact moment to trip rather theatrically. What he tripped on was unclear, but what became abundantly clear, however, was that the beer-bottle he’d been holding had been squarely aimed at Ringo. For the second time in one hour, Ringo found his shirt soaked. With beer this time. His pants were equally drenched as well.

“John…!”

“Oh, dear, how clumsy of me. Looks like you’ll have to change shirts again.”

Ringo didn’t even have time to agree before John eagerly grabbed the hem and started yanking on it like an impatient toddler. Michael’s shirt was off in no time, and John tossed it aside, ignoring Ringo’s protests. Then he wrenched off his own shirt and manhandled Ringo into it, looking him up and down critically. “You need to change your pants as well,” he said, reaching unabashedly for Ringo’s fly.

“John!” Ringo squeaked again, mortified, and tried to bat John’s hands away.

“Oh, quit bein’ such a baby, Ritchie! It’s a movie set! People are running around half-naked all the time! Besides, I’m not havin' ya sittin’ next to me on the way back, stinking of beer all the way.”

Ringo had to relent.

He was shorter than John by a few inches, so he had to roll up the hem of the pants, but other than that they fit nicely. He straightened up again; only to find that John had changed clothes as well, and his mind froze.

It froze because John was in uniform.

Now, Ringo had always appreciated the fact that their generation hadn’t been drafted for military service. He couldn’t have gone anyway, with his health the way it was, but nevertheless, he’d been grateful on behalf of his friends. But in that moment, he couldn’t help but think it a crime against humanity that the world had never got to see John Lennon in a uniform. Nothing could’ve prepared Ringo for how ruggedly handsome he was, how irresistibly cool-looking, how instantly magnetic… And when he rummaged in his pockets and lit a cigarette with practiced hands, he looked the spitting image of a young, happy-go-lucky private.

This is the actual British James Dean, Ringo realised, not even feeling bitter about it. He could’ve sworn the sun was blazing ten times hotter than before. Sweat was starting to trickle down his back again. Heat pooling between his legs. He prayed John wouldn’t see how it affected him, that uniform. Which, judging by that smug smirk on his face, he did.

“You like it?” he asked innocently.

Ringo didn’t trust his voice, so he settled for a nod. John took a leisurely drag of his cigarette. “I mean, it doesn’t bring out the colour in me eyes or anything, but…” He snickered at Ringo’s glower, and started looking him up and down again, an expression of deep satisfaction on his face. Like he was taking pleasure in Ringo wearing his clothes. He was staring at Ringo with something like … ownership, almost.

Well, he owns half the stuff on me body, Ringo reasoned.

Reasonable as that was, it didn’t make his erection flag one bit.

Although Ringo eventually found a spot in the shade, it was still sweet torment to stand there all day in John’s clothes, with John’s scent surrounding him, while watching John in uniform outclass every single professional actor on set. They were alright, by all means. Michael Crawford did his best, no doubt about that. But none of them could draw the eyes like John did. None of them had an ounce of his charisma or charm. None of them were as cool.

They could only ever hope to be.

When they were done for the day, Michael sought him out again (Ringo had retrieved the shirt from where John had carelessly flung it) and started making some very unsubtle hints about “what he’d be willing to do for Ringo to enjoy his stay more thoroughly”.

He was thoroughly interrupted by John however, who haughtily told him that, “Dick wants you to ride back with him. He’s got some serious concerns on whether you’re the right man for the role,” and then dragged Ringo with him to their car.

“Spoilsport,” Ringo snorted as John crowded him into the backseat. “He would’ve given me a blowie, and now he’s gonna give one to Dick instead.”

“Dick’s not into blokes; that’s just Michael. And besides,” he added, “I was thinkin’ you could give me a blowie soon, as a birthday gift, y’know?”

“Not givin’ ya a blowie, John.”

“What if I wear the uniform?”

Ringo had a serious think. “No, not then either.”

“Hm. Well, I can always try it on Paul when I get back. Or George. But if you won’t give me that, could you at least agree to stay a few extra days after me birthday? I know you can’t stand the heat, but would’ya? As a gift?”

Ringo felt his insides warm, but not because of the sun. It was something much more potent than that. It feels good to be wanted.

“Sure, mate. I’ll stay.”

John sighed happily. “Thanks, Ritchie. ‘Preciate it. And if it’s any consolation, you wouldn’t’ve liked a blowie from Michael, I think.”

“Why not?”

“Cause he’s not your type, anyway.”

1969

“Think of a helicopter shot over the amphitheatre —”

Fuckin’ hell, here we go again. “Yes, but that’s the only argument you’re givin’ to me is the helicopter shot! And you’ll see the sea and you’ll be in a theatre. Y’know, and that is— For one, two minutes, say of that shot isn’t worth me going out there. When I really prefer to do it here.”

Ringo liked Michael Lindsay-Hogg. He really did. Most of the time, anyway. He admired him as a director and as a connoisseur of cigars. Problem was the man just didn’t know when to quit, when to shut up, when to leave them alone … or when to take a hint. He had an unhealthy obsession with a certain “torchlit amphitheatre” out in the desert somewhere and had been trying to persuade The Beatles into going there from day one. Even though Ringo had explicitly told them all he didn’t wanna go abroad. The last time they’d gone abroad, it’d been a disaster.

He’s got an uphill battle to fight though, was Ringo’s comfort. George definitely didn’t wanna go abroad either. John was down for it. But then John was down for anything outlandish these days. Paul would’ve been happy to go. He’d even tried to mildly persuade Ringo as well, but when Ringo had put his foot down, he’d simply shrugged and said, “Alright, then. We’re staying here.” Paul would never force him to do anything he didn’t really wanna do.

Thinking about it made Ringo shoot a grateful look in Paul’s direction. He was sitting at the piano, working out that melody he’d been fiddling with during The White Album. ‘Let It Be’, or something. It was gonna be another major hit, Ringo could tell. Paul just seemed to conjure up these hits on a daily basis now. Like the one he did yesterday, as well.

You’ve gotta slow down, mate, he thought affectionately. The rest of us are barely keeping up with ya as it is. Not only was Paul hitting a creative peak, but he was also hitting his peak look-wise as well. He’d always been a favourite with the girls (and boys, to be fair). No wonder, with his cherubic face and huge puppy-eyes. But in Ringo’s opinion, Paul had never been handsome. Until now, at least.

Paul just looked so manly! He’d let his hair and beard grow for once, and he’d bulked up, too. Seriously, who could blame John or George for trying to keep a slight distance? Anyone would’ve found it difficult to control themselves around this Paul. Ringo certainly did! He’d been hugging Paul far more than strictly necessary lately. Both because he wanted to, and because he sensed that Paul needed it. And it felt good to be needed.

His pleasant reflections were rudely interrupted by Michael Lindsay-Hogg. Again. “But the thing is, everything you do has got to be good, cause all your albums are good. I mean, there’s not a duff album— I mean, it’s not only you as the band and it’s not only them as songwriters. It is the four of you —"

Ringo tuned out Michael’s stupid waffling. He was trying to listen to Paul play for fuck’s sake! Why did it always have to be him who had to be the grown up and put on the nice act for the posh people? Was it because he was the oldest?

No, it’s cause you're the nicest, he thought glumly. George clearly couldn’t stand Michael, so he was out of the question. John didn’t care to talk to anyone unless they talked to him first. Besides, he suspected Michael of not liking Yoko. So there was that. Paul, to be fair, would’ve normally tried to keep a polite front, but when Paul was in creative mode like he was now, he tended to ignore most other people who weren’t The Beatles. Which only left Ringo to actually engage with these “other people”.

“— and it’s got to be the best. Because… I mean, the hearts of millions are with you, you know what I mean? It’s got to be the best. It can’t —”

“Every time we do anything it’s always going to be the best,” Ringo said wearily. Just piling on the pressure, aren’t ya?

“But if it is going to be your last TV show —”

The fuck did that mean?! Ringo dropped the nice act.

“Yeah, but you’re only surmising that,” he put in sharply, making Michael stutter and stop. “Just cause we got a bit grumpy. We’ve been getting grumpy for the last eighteen months!”

That much was true at least. George was grumpy with Paul and Yoko. Paul was grumpy with John and Yoko. John was grumpy with Paul and … himself? Maybe? Hard to tell. And Ringo wasn’t grumpy with anyone. Unless you counted Michael Lindsay-Hogg just now. Who could Michael be grumpy with? Probably George. As for Yoko, she could be grumpy with everyone, or no one. Ringo had no idea.

In short, it was all a bit of a mess. It didn’t help that they were stuck in the cold, damp grotto of Twickenham either. It seemed to suck all the life and joy out of the sessions.

Only Paul appeared unaffected. Still bursting at the seams with creative energy; still adamant that the solution to their burn-out was to do more work; still optimistic that they could pull this off. Maybe that’s why Ringo had gravitated towards him so far. To feed off some of that positivity. Well, that, and to make sure Paul got all the hugs he needed.

“See, I’d watch an hour of him just playing the piano. Cause he’s so great.” Ringo smiled triumphantly when he saw how Paul preened from the praise. He was too easy sometimes…

This made no impression on Michael, of course, who kept going on and on about his torchlit amphitheatre until Ringo agreed to maybe reconsider his stance on going abroad. (A bold-faced lie, he had no intention of going abroad, he just wanted Michael to quit his nagging).

It did the trick though, cause Michael, much more chipper, said, “Okay, I love you. That’s fine.”

Paul played a false note on the piano.

Weird.

Ringo sighed, putting on the nice act once more. “Yes, I love you too.”

Paul seemed to be hitting the keys rather angrily. ‘Let It Be’ was slowly turning into ‘Helter Skelter’.

Michael, though, was still in his happy little bubble. “Okay. We’ll get married one day so you’re stuck.”

A furious CLANG! of piano keys echoed through the cavernous space of Twickenham. George almost dropped his precious guitar, swearing profusely, and John and Denis O’Dell nearly fell out of their clap chairs. Even Yoko seemed a bit shocked. Ringo, after he’d made sure they weren’t under some sort of attack, had to slap Michael repeatedly between his shoulder blades, as the poor man had inhaled half his cigar.

Everyone looked towards the piano.

Paul seemed oblivious to the ruccus he'd caused. He sat straight as an arrow on the piano stool, fully focused on the keys, only raising his voice as he out of nowhere declared to everyone and to no one: “I’ve written a new song.”

Silence.

Paul held forth. “A very peculiar song, you might say. Came to me just now, as a matter of fact!”

Ringo didn’t know where this was going, but it couldn’t be anywhere good. Paul’s voice was at its mildest and calmest, which meant his inner mind was at its most dangerous.

Finally, Paul raised his head, and his eyes landed on Michael. Ringo felt his respect for the director tick up a notch when Michael didn’t immediately sprint for the exit, though it could be because he was too petrified to move.

“It’s about this serial killer called Maxwell who goes around killing all the people who annoy him with a hammer,” Paul said merrily, with a big, slightly manic smile that was far from reassuring. “You wanna hear it?”

Ringo had a bad feeling about this. “Oh, no, you don’t have to —”

“BANG! BANG! MAXWELL’S SILVER HAMMER CAME DOWN UPON HIS HEAD, CLANG! CLANG! MAXWELL’S SILVER HAMMER MADE SURE THAT HE WAS DEAD!”

The first rendition of ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ was an unforgettable event. Paul sang it so loudly it was like he wanted to hammer the lyrics into their heads. At the same time, he was hammering on the piano like he really was Maxwell, and all the keys were the people who had personally annoyed him and deserved death as punishment.

It seemed to go on forever, Paul killing an endless string of people. Now and again he would treat Michael Lindsay-Hogg to one of those looks that would’ve made weaker men piss themselves. Ringo wondered just how many times Paul had imagined bashing Michael’s head in with a hammer during this song.

When it was finally over, Paul sat there breathing heavily by the piano, which by some miracle was still standing, while the silence stretched on and on.

It was Michael who ended up breaking it. “That was fabulous, Paul! Now, do you want to perform that song on the show? I can get a first-rate piano out to Libya on the day. Just say the word and —”

Ringo reassessed his respect for Michael. Turned out the director hadn’t stayed around due to bravery or fear, but rather because he was an oblivious fucking idiot. That’s posh people for you. Can't take a hint, can they?

“I think you’ll find we’re not goin’ abroad, actually,” Paul said coldly, shutting down Michael’s ramblings completely. “Cause Ringo’s put his foot down. And when he says ‘No’ it means ‘No’! We’re not goin’ anywhere without him. We need him.”

Taken aback by the admission, Ringo felt a sudden blush coming on. Both from what Paul had said and from what he looked like right now, as he ran a frustrated hand through his dark mane. He’d forgotten how cool Paul could be when he dropped the polite exterior and acted like the guy who’d once set fire to a condom in a hallway, just to stick it to a shite boss. He noticed John and George were grinning as well. They all loved it when Paul cut people down like that. Especially people who thought they were better than them.

Michael finally seemed to take the hint, retreating into a corner and shrouding himself in a cloud of cigar smoke while muttering something about “not wanting to run into an angry Paul in a dark alley”.

And Ringo, free at last from his “nice-guy-act”, could finally do what he’d wanted to do for a while now. Namely go over to Paul, and give him a gentle hug.

Paul was stiff and tense, and he didn’t hug back, but Ringo could feel how he practically melted into his arms, a relieved sigh escaping him. Ringo felt like sighing himself. It feels good to be needed.

Paul wordlessly scooted over and made room for Ringo on the piano stool. Ringo took his place, and they fell into their usual light-hearted cabaret act. It didn’t take long for John and George to gather round as well.

“So what the fuck was up with that song of yours, Paul?” John wanted to know. “It sounded worse than ‘Wild Honey Pie’, and that’s really sayin’ something! You better not be planning on us recording that anytime soon.”

“Course we are!” Paul said, baffled that it was even up for discussion. “And if you lot don’t watch it, I’ll add a couple of verses.” There was a collective groan from the other three, which Paul chose to ignore.

“Michael said somethin’ to piss you off then?” George asked after a while, a wry smirk on his lips. He’d started playing the riff of that catchy tune Paul had come up with yesterday, ‘Get Back’ or whatever. They all fell into the rhythm of the song, Ringo tapping the beat on the piano lid with his hand.

Paul scoffed as his fingers smoothly danced across the keys he’d just been hammering on. “He was trying to force Ringo into goin’ abroad, even though we’ve made it clear from the start that it’s off the fuckin’ table. And when that didn’t work, he tried to be all lovey-dovey, like. Askin’ if he wanted to marry him… Ridiculous to be honest!”

At that piece of news, John and George looked like they were considering composing some ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammers’ of their own, and Ringo, alarmed, opened his mouth to defend Michael a bit. He’d only been joking about the whole “marry me” stuff, surely? It hadn’t been meant to be taken so seriously. But he didn’t get a chance to say anything, cause Paul beat him to it.

“Ridiculous, underhanded, and a waste of time. After all,” he said slyly, meeting Ringo’s eyes with a mischievous expression on that handsome face of his, causing Ringo’s hand and heart to skip a beat, “he’s not your type, is he?”

Ringo wasn’t sure what his type was anymore. He just knew he wouldn’t mind figuring it out, as long as it was with these three.

Chapter Text

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr McCartney?” The coquettish voice of the nurse was underscored by a highly suggestive tone, and Paul gave her a tight, clipped smile.

“No, thank you. I’m all good now. Just gonna catch up on some sleep, I think. Feel free to … y’know … leave.”

The nurse smiled like he’d just offered her to stay, and proceeded to, in an extremely roundabout way, ask for his autograph. He signed it, produced a yawn, and spent the next few minutes or so shooting down her advances by hinting that he’d kill for some peace and quiet. She proved to be extremely persistent however, and it was only after he’d loudly speculated that “The bloke next door sounds like he’s havin’ a heart attack”, that she saw fit to remember her duties and finally leave.

Paul hated hospitals. He hated the bland, sterile rooms, he hated the food, he hated those shapeless hospital gowns, he hated how you weren’t allowed to bring any instruments to kill the time, and he hated how every single doctor and nurse tried to flirt with him.

So he thought it very unfortunate that he was currently in a hospital, though not by his own volition. Brian had said it would only be for one day, but it was already one day too many. Paul had been on the verge of discharging himself several times, but whenever he did, a reproachful, highly annoying voice would sound off in his head:

Brian’s just worried about you. You gave him and the others the fright of their lives with your stupid, little full moon-glazing. And that other stuff you did too.

Wasn’t my fault! a familiar, far more defensive voice would pipe up. A voice which often took Paul’s side. Those mopeds were faulty anyway. Should never have trusted ‘em. And the full moon really was spectacular last night. Anyone would’ve been distracted, even without that other stuff. So there!

Then why didn’t Tara crash as well? the more annoying voice wanted to know, being unnecessarily sceptical in Paul’s opinion.

Well, if he had any wits about him, he would’ve crashed. That moon was worth crashing for, came the other voice’s reasonable reply.

Paul liked listening to this voice a lot. He thought it sounded very sensible. It was that voice he’d channeled when he’d phoned the other Beatles and explained what had happened.

Ringo had been the easiest to talk to. Sure, he’d been worried and pissed and told Paul that if he ever did anything like that again he’d make it his mission to burn every moped in the country, like in Sleeping Beauty. Paul had refrained from telling Ringo that in Sleeping Beauty they’d been up against spindles, not mopeds, but the sentiment hadn’t been lost on him. So he’d just promised Ringo never to do it again.

George hadn’t been so easily placated.

When Paul had tried to use that other, sensible voice on George, he’d been met with judgmental silences and sarcastic remarks; George leaving it in no doubt that he thought Paul was firmly to blame for all of this. Which was rude and just plain wrong, cause Paul had just explained that the full moon would surely have to carry most of the blame. And when he’d tried to distract George by complaining about the hospital food, George had cut him off by telling Paul to “eat his bloody food or he’d come down there and shove it down his fuckin’ throat.” And then he’d promptly hung up on him. So that had been the end of that talk.

And John… Paul made a face. They hadn’t talked so much as they’d been shouting at each other over the line, John almost hysterical with rage. It’d been absurd! He’d blamed Tara and Paul and Tara again, and when Paul tried to explain that it’d really been the full moon’s fault for being so captivating, he’d screeched, “What are ya, a fuckin’ werewolf?!” before slamming the phone down. But not before he’d threatened with a visit. Paul grimaced as he remembered that. The last time John had been really worried about him had been in Portsmouth in ’63 when he’d had that stomach bug. Back then both him and George had fussed about him like mother hens, but John had taken it to the extreme, not letting Paul out of bed for a cup of tea even.

A visit from an upset John was bad enough, but when the door creaked open and an irritable Paul, expecting the bothersome nurse to come bustling back in again, spotted not one, but three Beatles sneak into his room, he felt his annoyance morph into dread, his mind supplying an ominous: Oh, for fuck’s sake…

Out loud he said: “What’re you all doin’ here?” He wished he’d said it with more confidence, but it came out as more of a nervous squeal.

None of them answered at first as they shuffled further in, Ringo closing the door behind them. His was the only one whose expression seemed relatively normal. Meaning he didn’t look like he wanted to finish what the moped had started and kill Paul right then and there. John and George however… Paul shuddered.

“Well, well, well,” said John, silky smooth and dangerous. He was dressed in a plain white T-shirt with dark, sleek sunglasses and even darker, sleeker trousers. His hair was thick and soft as well, but Paul couldn’t really appreciate any of this, not with John approaching the bed like a predator stalking its prey. Paul pressed further back into the pillows, wishing they would open up and swallow him.

“Well, well, well,” John said again, taking off his sunglasses as he got closer and closer. Paul recognised that maniacal look on his face from back in Hamburg. Whenever John was preparing for a fight to protect a bandmate, that was the look he would wear. It would’ve been sweet and all considering the circumstances, if it hadn’t been for John’s fingers currently twisting and twitching like he wanted nothing more than to wrap them around Paul’s neck and throttle him. The very opposite of protecting your bandmate! “Well, well, well.”

Paul gave a tart sniff. “Y’know, there are other words in the English langua—”

He was interrupted by Ringo taking hold of his chin and carefully angling his face upwards. “Damaged the money-maker a bit, eh? Ya look like Patterson did after twelve rounds with Ali.” Ringo was wearing all denim, which made his kind, blue eyes pop and take the edge off the reproach in his voice.

“It's not that bad,” Paul murmured, feeling a bit flustered at Ringo’s gentle touch. “Doctor said the bruises should fade soon enough. Chipped a tooth as well, which I’ll fix later. And me ribs got a bit battered,” (here Paul had to hold onto his shirt for dear life, as John started pulling insistently at it to inspect said ribs) “but not broken. So all in all, nothing serious.”

He glanced over at George, who hadn’t said anything yet.

George’s face made it seem like whenever he wasn’t smiling, he looked slightly pissed off. It took a true connoisseur to know when George actually was pissed off. And today George was pissed off. In fact, he looked supremely pissed off, eyes taking in Paul’s bruised face and how small and frail he looked in among the bedsheets. Not that he should talk, Paul thought, refusing to feel guilty about this. When he looks thinner than a guitar neck. This was highlighted even further by George wearing a loose navy-blue shirt, and jeans so tight they might as well have been drainies. Paul was interrupted in his assessment of George’s clothing by George himself abruptly snagging the only chair in the room and dragging it across the floor as loudly and obnoxiously as possible till it was right beside Paul’s bed. Then he snatched a newspaper off the nightstand, plonked down in the chair and shook out the paper with such force the pages almost came loose. Paul had the distinct feeling George wanted to shake something else instead. That something being him.

“Been eatin’?” The question was innocent enough, but the eyes that skewered Paul over The Daily Mail spoke of pain and suffering if Paul was to say anything but “Yes, been eatin’”.

Paul nodded. “Yes, been eatin’,” he replied meekly. Once George started fretting about his food, it was best to acquiesce without a fight, cause George took his eating habits seriously. When the others first came in, Paul had briefly considered standing (or, well, sitting) his ground, but one look at how worried and agitated they all were made him realise it would be best to act the remorseful part. Acknowledge that he'd screwed up in some capacity (although he would never accept full blame, of course).

“Good,” George drawled, scowling at the paper like he’d just read about a tax increase. “Bet you didn’t eat before you climbed on that moped, did ya? You always act like a stupid twat when you’re hungry.”

“Wasn’t my fault!” Paul stuttered and to hell with taking any of the blame! “I already told you; the full moon was —”

“Not the bloody full moon again,” John growled. He was in a right mood at the moment, poking and prodding Paul’s shoulder, bopping his nose, scratching his scalp… Paul let him do it. He was used to it anyway. It was John’s particular way of showing him affection. Or drawing his attention. Or pulling him away from gropy journalists. Or keeping Paul to himse—

Point was, it also helped calm John down whenever he was feeling unsettled. And he’d been feeling unsettled since he walked into the room and saw Paul in the hospital bed.

Ringo shook his head, also used to John’s antics, and also used to not paying them any mind. “Honestly, mate, what were ya thinkin’? Those mopeds are death traps, y’know. The butcher on the corner of me stepdad’s old street used to go on holiday on one, until he crashed four summers ago and got butchered himself against the pavement.”

Paul blinked as he endured another “love-tap” (flick to the forehead) from John. “What’s that got to do with anythin’? I might as well say that none of us should be livin’ in London, cause one of our neighbours who used to be a postman had a great-great-great auntie who lived there when the place burned down three hundred years ago, and who’s to say it won’t happen again?”

That stopped Ringo dead in his tracks, and it became clear from his slowly panicking face that he'd never thought about this, and was now already making plans to buy a houseboat and move to the Thames in case of any fires like the one that happened three centuries ago. Paul opened his mouth to try and stop Ringo from buying this houseboat, but got distracted by John, who at that point decided to do their old spider-hand routine and walk his fingers lightly up Paul’s arm, starting from his wrist, climbing up his elbow, scaling his shoulder and finally tickling his neck. Apparently, his body was out of practice with this particular “love-tap”, cause the fingers left a trail of goosebumps in their wake and his breath and heart rate picked up speed for some reason.

He cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to squirm away from the gentle tickling while also avoiding John’s smug face. “Anyway,” he continued, voice pitched slightly higher than usual, “what I mean is that the mopeds had nothing to do with it. It would’ve been perfectly safe yesterday if it hadn’t been for the —”

“Paul, if you say ‘full moon’ one more time I swear to god…”

“You should’ve seen it, John!” Paul mewled. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like it! Like something out of a poem, it was. Just bathin’ everything in white and silver. It was so romantic! I asked Tara if he —”

“Romantic?” George cut in, angrily turning a page in the paper without looking up. “With Tara Browne?” John’s fingers froze on Paul’s neck and Ringo frowned.

“Well, not romantic in that sense. Just the romantic feeling of it all, y’know. Like riding a horse into the sunset with your mate —”

“Mate?” George cut in again, as if all these words were mysterious to him. “Didn’t realise you two were mates already.”

Paul scowled. “Course we’re mates! I’ve known him a while now, alright? But that’s not the point, is it? If you could stop interrupting me every five sec—”

He was promptly interrupted by John this time, who’d had enough of standing about and enough of hearing about Tara Browne and had decided to put an end to both by pulling back the covers and getting into bed with Paul.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?!” Paul squawked as John impatiently nudged him to the side.

“Oh, shut it, Macca! I’ve come all the way here to visit ya, and all you can talk about are full moons and riding into sunsets with that posh twat Tara. Meanwhile, me feet are cold and achin’ and the least you could do is share the bed. So shove off!”

Paul shoved off. The bed was plush and roomy, and John fit in with no problem. His hand also fit in against Paul’s back with no problem, despite Paul trying to shake it off. After a while however, it was beginning to feel like everyone’s nerves had settled a little, moods turning back to normal, and Paul was just about to ask an innocuous question about whether they should all go to Brian’s for New Year’s, when there was a soft knock at the door.

“Paul? You in there? It’s Tara.”

“How does everybody keep findin’ me room?” Paul angry-whispered.

“They set up a sign outside that said, ‘Full moon-wanker’,” John angry-whispered back, and then called out: “C’mon in, Tara! Paul’s here.” Only half as loud he added, “No thanks to you.” Paul shushed him and took the time to throw a quick elbow into his side before he made to get out of bed. There was no way he would let Tara see him cuddled up like this with John, like a cozy little couple.

At least that was the plan, until Ringo chose that exact moment to flop down on the other side of the bed, making Paul grunt in surprise. Now, the bed was bigger than average, but it was never meant to hold three grown men, and Paul was effectively squashed between his two bandmates. Not only that, but George (who was still reading the paper) made the peculiar decision to sink so low in his chair he was basically lying in it, and extending his long, lanky legs over the bed so he could plop them down on top of Paul’s legs, trapping him completely.

“All of ya, cut it out right now or I’ll —"

What Paul would do exactly they never found out, cause the door slowly opened and Tara Browne finally stepped in. He was a relatively handsome young lad, with dark-brown hair cut in a mop top and clothes that were stylish enough to tell you that the man was upper class, but not so flashy as to make you feel inferior. He was smiling as he came in, but the smile faltered just a tad when he took in the sight before him; Paul, red in the face from embarrassment, wedged squarely between John and Ringo, who were both staring at Tara like they were daring him to question this unusual seating arrangement. And then George, who was horizontal in a chair, legs resting on top of Paul’s, glaring at him from behind The Daily Mail.

“Hiya there, Tara,” Paul huffed, trying and failing to weasel his way out of the two crushing him in the middle. “You alright?”

“Uh…yes” Tara replied, tearing his eyes away from the grumpy gremlin that was George. “Are you alright?” he asked instead, looking uncertainly at Paul’s struggles in the middle of the strange ménage à trois.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Ringo smiled, casually draping an arm around Paul’s shoulder before Paul had a chance to answer. “We were just a bit worried about him you see, ever since we heard about last night.”

“Aye, when he was out with you. And almost got killed,” John added pleasantly. The smile he gave Tara was far from pleasant, however.

“Ah, yes, well,” Tara chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair, “I’m afraid he got distracted by a certain … celestial body … last night. Either that,” he continued, oblivious to Paul pointedly trying to catch his eye, “or he was too affected by the blunt we smoked an hour earlier.”

Paul could feel John and Ringo stiffen at his sides while George sucked in a breath. Though that could be from his uncomfortable position in the chair. There was a short silence while the other Beatles digested this new information, and it soon became clear that the information had led to indigestion. “Pot?” Ringo said, eyebrows creeping up into the stratosphere. “You smoked pot before gettin’ on those death traps?”

Paul almost winced from his judgmental tone. Ringo was probably thinking about what the butcher on the corner of his stepdad’s old street would’ve said about this!

“You mean the mopeds? Yes, we figured it was harmless. Those vehicles can't go faster than 40 kilometres per hour anyway.”

The atmosphere in the room, which had turned sour ever since Tara came in, had become downright hostile all of a sudden.

“Just so we’re clear,” George said slowly, hands gripping the newspaper so tight it crinkled the pages, “you smoked a blunt before goin’ on a romantic 40 kilometres per hour moped ride, you didn’t think about how hungry and stupid Paul would get from this, and you’re all surprised when he crashed from how hungry and stupid he’d become.”

Paul didn’t blame Tara for not knowing how to respond to this, especially since George followed it up by shooting Tara an accusing glare and grumbling, “The least you could’ve done is pump him full of sugar first.”

“No one’s pumping me full of sugar, George!” Paul hissed. “And anyway, it was the full moon more than anythin’ else that— ah!”

 John’s hand, which had been resting innocently on his back till now, had suddenly dipped down, pulled up the back of his shirt, and smoothly slid directly onto his back, causing Paul to emit a rather undignified yelp.

“Well, well, well,” John said again, with much more glee this time, all low and threatening. His fingers started a sinful trek up and down Paul’s spine and Paul began to tremble. “You learn something new every day, eh, Paulie? Here I was, thinkin’ about what a daft idiot you gotta be to crash your moped cause you were too busy admirin’ the full moon of all things, and then I find out that not only did this daft idiot crash his moped cause of the full moon, but also because he thought it a good idea to smoke illegal drugs before getting on the moped. What a daft idiot, eh, Paulie?”

Paul had a good mind to bring up all the times John had taken a swig from a bottle before getting behind the wheel, but just then the fingers on his back drew a complicated pattern between his shoulder blades, and he had to bite his lip instead to prevent another yelp from escaping.

Tara looked at him with something resembling concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, Paul? You look a bit grim.”

Paul cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

He was not fine. John’s clever fingers were setting off fires in other body parts. Mainly the one between his legs. He thought about using the old excuse of the loo to escape the situation, but his chance of doing so was shrinking steadily as another part of him kept growing steadily. It would be too obvious. Besides, he couldn’t leave Tara alone with this vengeful lot. In the mood they were in, they were likely to attack him and turn his hospital visit into a hospital stay.

John sneered at Tara as if to prove Paul’s point. “Don’t worry about Paul here. He’s just reflecting on his mistakes. He’s good at doin’ that, aren’t ya, Paul? Which is why he’ll never ride a moped again. Pot or no pot, full moon or no full moon. Will you, Paul?” John’s thumb rubbed an old, faded scar on Paul’s back, making him whimper and arch.

“No, I won’t,” Paul panted, desperate to appease those fingers that were now mapping out the light dusting of freckles on his back with apparent relish.

“Good to hear, mate,” Ringo beamed, oblivious to what was going on just below his arm. “Cause we were really worried, y’know. Weren’t we, George?”

“Speak for yerself.”

“Come off it. Yesterday you were all, ‘What if there’s been some internal bleedin’, Ritchie? What if he’s dead in the morning? What do we do then?’”

“I'll tell ya what we could do, we could jam some drumsticks down our drummer's throat,” George said darkly, rattling the paper. “See if that shuts him up.”

Tara coughed uneasily, feeling more and more like he’d steered into unknown waters and having no idea how to navigate them. In an effort to lighten the mood he said, “Anything interesting in the paper, George?”

George narrowed his eyes at him like it was the most offensive question he’d ever heard in his life and spat, “No. It’s all shite.”

“Course it is. It’s The Daily Mail,” John snorted, amusing himself with Paul’s reaction to him running a lone fingertip down his spine. Then he frowned. “Besides, you’re readin’ it upside-down.”

George’s face warmed a bit, but he quickly recovered and said, “Yeah, well, it’s the only way I can stand readin’ it. Cause it’s all shite.”

Tara looked at George like he was the one who was upside-down, and Ringo, despite having been threatened with drumsticks jammed down his throat, felt like backing George up a bit. “Y’know, Tara, in Japan they read stuff upside-down.”

“You mean back to front, mate,” John sniggered.

“It’s right to left,” Paul managed through gritted teeth. John’s hand had wandered down to his waist and it was all he could do to keep his breath even at this point. He failed in the next second when John whispered, “Right to left, was it?” and spider-walked his fingers from the right side of his waist to the left. Paul clenched his fists in the sheets and pulled them up higher so no one would see the contour of his hard-on.

Ringo laughed. “Trust Paul to be the one to actually know. What would we do without him, eh?” The hand he’d placed around Paul’s shoulder ventured up into his hair instead, carding through his locks, and Paul was officially done. He didn’t know why everyone was so handsy with him today, he just knew it was taking its toll on his poor body. Even his legs were starting to ache from George’s feet pressing down on them. Normally he would’ve smacked all their hands away and threatened to write a pissy song about it, but he couldn’t do that just yet. Not with Tara still around.

Apparently George heard his thinking and wanted to hear these songs himself, cause he suddenly turned to Tara and said, “You’re goin’ out with that model, aren’t ya? Suki Potier?” Tara looked a bit thrown at the sudden change of topic but nodded anyway. “Suki Potier, yes. What about her?”

George shrugged indifferently. “Nothing. Just that I saw her yesterday. She was out in the park, enjoying the snow and all. Caused quite a ruckus. There was this one fella who kept chattin’ to her. Don’t know who he was, but he looked a handsome lad. And rich too. Thought I should mention it, in case he’s a friend of yours.” George’s face was completely neutral, but Paul, a true connoisseur of George’s facial expressions, knew a hidden smile when he saw one. George was having fun.

Tara, on the other hand, was not having fun. He’d paled remarkably since George mentioned the “handsome fella” and seemed to be in a hurry all of a sudden. “Right. Well. I just came by to see how you were doing, Paul. But from what I can tell you’ve got enough company and seem to be in very good hands.” That last bit he said while eyeing Ringo’s hand combing through Paul’s hair.

“Oh, he’s in good hands alright,” John grinned, sneaking his own hand around Paul’s flank to play with the button on his pants.

“Been nice seein' ya, Tara,” Paul forced out, proud of the minimal wobbling in his voice. “We’ll do something after New Year’s, yeah? Something fun.”

“Oh, I dunno about that,” Ringo put in before Tara could say anything. “We’ll be busy with the new album, and Tara’ll be busy keepin’ Suki away from that handsome fella. In fact, if I were you, Tara, I’d move away from London altogether. No good, this place. Too many temptations. And it burned down a few years ago and all.”

Tara gave Paul a look, but Paul only shook his head in reply. He couldn’t use words now anyway, not with John stroking the inside of his thigh. Luckily, Tara decided to be gracious about it. “Well, I’ll see you some other time then, I guess. In the meantime, a merry Christmas to you all and a happy New Year.”

John, George and Ringo wished him the same, with shameless enthusiasm after their previous behaviour in Paul’s opinion. As soon as the door closed behind Tara, George straightened up in his chair and John slipped his hand out from under the covers, smirking like a leprechaun at Paul’s furious face. Why did John have to look his best when he was at his most mischievous for fuck's sake… He placed a cigarette between his lips and rooted around in his pockets for the lighter, all the while giving Paul a more serious look. “No more mopeds, Paul. I mean it. Not unless the moon is waning.”

Paul sighed. “I won’t, I won’t. I already promised Ringo. Besides, you can’t blame the moon, that’s ridiculous. It was the pot more than anythin'.”

Ringo patted his head affectionately. “The day you take the blame for anythin’ is the day I drop dead from shock.”

Before Paul could defend himself from such an unreasonable statement, George folded up The Daily Mail with a last, disdainful “Shite”, and chucked the thing in the rubbish bin. Then, not wanting to be left out anymore, he climbed into the bed. By the foot end, thankfully, otherwise he’d never fit. He tangled his legs with Paul’s and searched his own pockets for something, clearly having trouble with how tight his jeans were. Finally, he pulled out a squished milky bar and tossed it at Paul.

“Go on then. Or I’ll come over there and push it in your face.”

Paul knew all of George’s expressions, and this one right here brooked no arguments. He considered trying anyway, after all they’d put him through today, but then that annoying voice in his head made an unwelcome return. It’s your fault they’re all like this in the first place. Least you can do is let George pump you full of sugar. He was too tired to argue with it at the moment, so he just tore at the wrapping and started munching, ignoring how George visibly relaxed. Paul wasn’t gonna let him get off that easy though.

“Y’know, you didn’t have to make up that story about Suki and that fella. Tara’s gonna be all worried now.”

“Needed to say somethin' to make him leave, didn't I? And who said I was lying? Suki was quite nice when I talked to her yesterday. I’d say Tara’s got a right to be worried.”

There was a beat of silence as the other three processed this, and then they all collapsed into helpless giggles. Paul, who was still stuck between John and Ringo, laughed so hard his ribs started protesting, and his laughter abruptly turned into swearing.

“By the way, Paul, how long you gotta be here for?” Ringo wanted to know after they’d all regained their ability to breathe.

“They said midday, so it’ll be a while yet, lads. You can all go terrorize London in the meantime.”

“Mmm,” John hummed thoughtfully, lending Paul his ciggie and staring up at the ceiling. “Reckon we might as well stick around. Too many shady people about. And they all seem to have a knack for finding your room.”

Paul smiled, wondering what the others would make of all the nurses and doctors trying to seduce him. He still hated hospitals; nothing had changed there. But he realised he was hating them slightly less with this lot keeping him company. Now he just hoped they’d never find out that he’d ridden the moped without a helmet on. They might never let him leave the bed in that case.

Chapter Text

John was in a good mood. In fact, he was downright chipper. He was with his four favourite people in the world, they were in Paris, and he was in the middle of a rebellion. A John Lennon recipe for a good time.

And it wasn’t a rebellion of his own device either. Which was so rare George had compared it to meeting a likable Tory.

He’d been pleasantly surprised when Paul had suggested they’d skip today’s recording session. People-pleaser Paul, going against Eppy and George Martin? Squeaky clean Macca, defying expectations?

“No need to put it like that!” Paul had bristled when John had indeed put it like that. “I don’t like disappointing ‘em, but I just don’t wanna do it, that’s all. Dubbing our own songs in German of all things. If the songs are good, then who bloody cares! I don’t understand a word of ‘La Bamba’ and I don’t need to either. It’s a great song anyhow. I’d rather declare war on Germany again than sing ‘Sie Liebt Dich’. They’re gonna have to drag me to the studio!”

John had been so impressed by this (uncommonly) fiery speech from Paul that he’d cancelled his plans for the day in order to stay and encourage this uprising. Which was why he and the rest of The Beatles were currently sitting in their hotel room (a much fancier hotel room than John’s previous visit to Paris, mind you) playing poker.

“Eppy’s gonna flip ya know, when he hears about it,” Ringo smirked. He stopped smirking soon enough when he heard George’s new bid. “Shit. I fold.”

“I’ll fold you if you don’t shut up about it,” John shot back. He was considering raising George’s bid. It was risky, but John loved a bit of risk.

“Be more worried about George Martin if I were you,” George drawled, frowning down at his cards like he didn’t sit with a bloody straight flush or something. George always got lucky in poker even though he had the face to pretend he didn’t. “He’s probably waiting in the studio right now, and he doesn’t like wastin’ time, y’know.”

“Nah, he’s … he must’ve gone home by now, right?” Paul said uncertainly beside Ringo.

Paul never got lucky in poker, and he didn’t have the face to convince anyone otherwise. Those eyes of his were so big you could read his own cards reflected in them. Although John couldn’t read shit at the moment, cause he was also rebelling against wearing his glasses. He had a lot of rebellions going on. This one definitely of his own device. But he didn’t need glasses to read the trepidation in Paul’s eyes at the moment.

“He … he knows how John and I feel about it, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise.” Paul darted a quick, anxious look at John, completely missing Ringo having a sneak-peek at his entire hand. “Right?”

“Stop lookin’ like Bambi’s having a panic attack, Macca,” John admonished, making Paul scowl like Bambi in a sulk and bid higher than he’d originally intended. So easy. John gave him a sideways look. He knew Paul would start wavering. “Y’know, last time we were in Paris, you would’ve started another revolution before lettin’ anyone tell you what to do.” Except me. You would’ve let me tell you what to do. “What happened to that fella?”

“Maybe he realised that ya can’t fuck off to Paris without tellin’ your bandmates about it,” George bit him off.

John exchanged a sheepish look with Paul. Still a bit of a sore spot, I guess. Sure, maybe they’d felt a little bit bad about it at the time, but John couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Paul had been so endearingly flattered and happy that despite the grubby hotel and the French not understanding a lick of their Liverpudlian, he ranked the trip amongst his favourite memories. And George being bitter about it wasn’t going to change that.

“I’m all in,” he said smoothly, staring George down as he placed his last five macarons on the plate in the middle of the table.

“I still think we should’ve used some actual money to play with. Just doesn’t look as cool as in the films with just macarons,” Ringo complained.

“Well, then some of us are gonna have to start carryin’ some actual money around, ya numpty!” John snapped.

“We all did,” George pointed out.

“Y’know, you’re lucky I’m even here right now, willin’ to sacrifice me snacks. I was supposed to meet Trini for dinner at that posh place down by The Arc, and I’m sure he would’ve treated me a right side better than you lot!”

In the silence that followed this statement, John could sense how the atmosphere shifted. Having spent more time with his bandmates than with his own wife meant knowing how to read the signs. And right now, Paul started nibbling on his thumb in that nervous way of his. His self-soothing gesture. George narrowed his eyes at his cards like they’d just called his mum a pig, and Ringo started munching sullenly on a macaron (which was technically against the rules of the game but was difficult to resist in the long run).

“Didn’t you have dinner with him yesterday?” Paul said around his thumb, voice carefully neutral.

John gave him a look. “If by yesterday you mean a week ago, then yeah.”

“If you say so. Felt like yesterday, anyway. Maybe it’s cause you mention him so often. Feels like he’s part of the band all of a sudden.”

Talk about passive-aggressive… But two could play at that game, so John just shrugged. “Who knows? Since you’ve declared yourself such a fan of ‘La Bamba’, I figured you wouldn’t mind a Latino in the group. Almost sounds like Ritchie Valens when he does it.”

“I can do ‘La Bamba’,” George blurted out.

“You havin’ a laugh? You can play ‘La Bamba’, George, but every time you try and sing it, it comes out as ‘Maggie Mae’.”

“Y’know what? I’m all in as well,” George growled, smashing his macarons down on the plate so hard they went from macarons to pancakes.

“Me too!” Paul announced dramatically. Or rather, it would’ve been dramatic, if he’d had more than two macarons to show for it.

“You think that if Trini tried singin’ ‘Maggie Mae’ it would come out as ‘La Bamba’?” Ringo wondered, biting into another macaron.

“I think you can’t sing either of them. You’re too busy stuffing yer face with our currency. Fuckin’ hell, with Ritchie here turning into Augustus Gloop and with George probably winnin’ this round, I’ll be starving by nightfall. Should’ve gone with Trini to that restaurant after all.”

“I’m all in!” Ringo suddenly barked, spraying crumbs everywhere while scowling at John.

“You folded!”

“I’m unfolding!”

Before Ringo had a chance to unfold however, there was a series of sharp knocks on the door, followed by George Martin’s firm, authoritative voice, demanding that they ‘act their age’. Which was ironic, cause all of a sudden, John had the distinct feeling of being thirteen years old and waiting for a caning in the principal’s office. And as for Paul-‘they’re-gonna-have-to-drag-me-to-the-studio’-McCartney, he abandoned his macarons to perish in Ringo’s insatiable maw and ducked under the table, hissing at George and Ringo to tell George Martin that he’d fallen out the window or something and reminding them of their band loyalty. John would’ve taken the piss out of him, if he wasn’t so busy crawling into the wardrobe.

As it turned out, band loyalty meant fuck all to George and Ringo in the face of nabbing the rest of John and Paul’s macarons, and they were all too happy to point out to George Martin where his misbehaving charges were hiding. Which led to John and Paul being marched through the streets of Paris to the studio to record ‘Sie Liebt Dich’, George Martin following behind them like an officer returning with two deserting privates.

The recording session itself was actually a lot of fun, with Paul doing his best to make him crack up and most of the time succeeding, but John was still grumpy when they finished. He had a rock ‘n’ roll image to uphold, and rockers never did as they were told. Which he pointed out to Paul afterwards.

“We were told to wear suits by Eppy, and we did that,” Paul argued.

“That was a one-time exception.”

“We were told to stop swearin’ on stage, and we did that as well.”

“A two-time exception.”

“How many exceptions are we allowed then?”

“Dunno. But dubbing our own songs should be the last fuckin’ exception in my opinion. Should’ve gone with Trini instead. George wouldn’t’ve found me if I was out.”

If John hadn’t been digging in his pockets for ciggies, he would’ve noticed how Paul’s face clouded over when he mentioned Trini. Then again, he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so it’s possible he wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway. However, he did notice how Paul placed a warm, steadying hand at his back to safely guide him back to the George V Hotel.

John wondered if it was possible to sweat underneath your skin as he handed Neil his Gibson backstage, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. The fans had already started to trickle past the security, and Mal and Neil and The Beatles were itching to get a move on. John cackled as Ringo frantically tried to fend off a dozen thirsty French boys all clamouring for a piece of him, their shouts of: “Ringo! Ringo!” echoing through the venue. Who’d’ve thought the French would have a thing for big noses?

They were getting ready to return to their hotel after another half-decent concert. Only “half-decent”, as John could still hear perfectly fine and he hadn’t been pelted with chocolate or anything, unlike their other international gigs. Trust the bloody French to have different tastes to the rest of Europe, he thought, once again sending a puzzled look towards the French armada surrounding Ringo. Used to be him or Paul or George the crowd flocked to. Maybe he was losing his touch…

“Ah, mi amigo, are you jealous for attention?”

John smiled even before he turned.

Trini Lopez had been their supporting act since they first arrived in Paris. He was a dashing, middle-aged man with the easy confidence of someone who’d worked with Frank Sinatra, and he reminded John a bit of Brian. His American accent had only a hint of Mexican thrown in there, which only made him more pleasant to listen to. However, the most attractive thing about Trini, was that he preferred John’s company to the rest of The Beatles. Paul and George were the usual magnets for a lot of people, and all the gay boys in France were tripping over their feet for Ringo apparently, but John always felt he had to work a little extra for attention. Be funnier, wilder, wittier. It was exhausting at times. So when Trini had focused more on him than the others, he’d welcomed it. The man knew his French and his music and was therefore a valuable companion to have in Paris.

“Don’t lack for attention, do I? Not with you hangin’ about me neck like a guitar,” John threw back, no real bite to his words.

“Then we might as well “hang about” in a more comfortable setting. You remember the restaurant I told you about a few days ago? We could go there if you like. Their ratatouille is supposedly the best one in Paris and their boeuf bourguignon isn’t too shabby either.”

John didn’t know what half of that meant, but he was willing to find out, and opened his mouth to say so, when a panting, sweaty Ringo materialised in front of them.

“I gave ‘em the slip. They think I’m at the opposite end of the hallway. C’mon, let’s get outta here before they wanna guillotine me for running away.”

“Your neck’s so thick it would’ve dulled the blade,” John said drily. “But you lot can go on ahead. Trini and I are headin’ out to dinner. Just gonna wash up first.”

Ringo’s face looked like he’d just caught someone messing with his drums. “You’re goin’ out to dinner with him again?”

“Well, yeah, since it got cancelled last time, I figured —”

“What are we waitin’ around here for?” Paul and George appeared beside Ringo, Paul blowing the fringe away from his clammy forehead and George lighting a ciggie already. Paul’s eyes flickered between John and Trini, imperceptibly fast. “Mal and Neil say we’re good to go, and I don’t wanna stick around here when Ringo’s fans find out we’ve not actually left yet. They might realise they’ve got better options.” He smirked, far too proud of that shitty joke.

“True that,” George nodded. “Why don’t you go out there and tell ‘em while the actual better options make a run for it?”

“Why don’t you shut the fu—”

“John and Trini are goin’ out for dinner,” Ringo interrupted. Unnecessarily loud in John’s opinion.

Paul and George ceased their bickering and in the pregnant pause that followed they could all hear the forlorn French cries of: “Ringo? Ringo?” haunting the building.

“Dinner again, eh?” George said, sounding like he considered stubbing his cigarette out in Trini’s eye. John subtly stepped in front of the American, wondering just how many macarons George was planning to rob him of tonight to make him react so badly to John going to dinner instead.

Paul placed a soothing hand on George’s shoulder. “Well!” he said, all jovial. “Now that you mention it, I feel positively starved meself. Could’ve eaten Mal in fact, if I didn’t need him to carry me bass. How about you, George?”

“I could eat,” George agreed, staring at Trini with a stoic face.

“And I’ve always wanted to try proper French cuisine,” Ringo prompted.

John had serious doubts about that. Ringo’s tummy was more sensitive than a canary in a coal mine and he was extremely suspicious of all foreign food. But there was no use arguing with that stubborn expression.

“Great!” Paul beamed. “Let’s wash up at the hotel first. You don’t mind waitin’ a bit, do you, Trini?”

Trini didn’t get a say in the matter, cause Paul grabbed John’s arm and steered him resolutely towards the door, George and Ringo close on their heels.

John sincerely hoped Trini didn’t mind waiting more than a bit, cause while he was quick to get ready, the others took their time like they were fixing up to see the queen or something. Every time one of them emerged from the bathroom, they looked mildly disappointed to find that Trini was still there, glaring at them with justified impatience. Paul took the longest (bloody princess that he was), and when he finally made his appearance, he gave Trini a long, calculating look before he smiled breezily, padded over to John, and began straightening his tie. John reddened up to his ears and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Paul, who leaned awfully close and murmured: “Wanna look our best now, don’t we?”

John didn’t know what to say and wasn’t sure he could say anything either. Not with Paul standing so close staring into the depths of his soul. With a last firm tug on his tie, Paul strolled past the gawping Trini towards the door, reminding the rest of them to, “Hurry up, yeah? We’ve wasted enough time as it is.” As if he wasn’t the cause for the delay.

I indulge him too much.

John told himself he loosened his tie again just to be defiant. It definitely wasn’t to feel the lingering touch of Paul’s fingers at his neck.

The walk down Champs-Élysées was uneventful apart from his bandmates acting like fucking lunatics. When they weren’t busy keeping an eye out for fans, they kept an eye out for whenever Trini tried to walk beside him. Then one of them would snap into action, nudging Trini out of the way or subtly manoeuvring so he’d be walking on the fringes of the group.

Paul was the worst. He flatly refused to leave John’s side, hand on his back the entire time like John was about to walk into traffic with every step. When John surly asked if Paul expected him to collide with the bloody Eiffel Tower, Paul let go of him for a second. Only for John to use that second to collide with a lamp post. The hand was smoothly placed on his back again, Paul doing a miserable job of hiding his smile. John kept quiet this time… Except for a hitch in his breath when Paul gave a soft squeeze to his neck while the others were busy trying to convince an unimpressed Ringo that the Eiffel Tower was indeed taller than the Blackpool Tower.

The restaurant really was a posh place. With waiters at the door and a red carpet leading up to the entrance and everything. The waiter who greeted them was wearing a uniform so tight it looked like a straitjacket. He bowed with a practiced smile on his lips, but John could see a glimpse of recognition in his eyes, and sure enough, in the next second he exclaimed: “Ah! Les Beatles?”

“That’s right,” John said, “Les Bugs”. He sniggered at the man’s brief confusion before George shoved him out of the way.

“I’ll handle this,” he said brusquely. He turned to the waiter and motioned with his hand at himself and his four companions. “Quatre”, he declared, holding up five fingers.

The waiter’s confusion was mounting steadily. Especially when Ringo said “No, no, cinq,” and held up four fingers, followed by Paul cursing them out for being idiots and John breaking down in a laughing fit. It was Trini who finally saved them, by stepping up and rattling off a bunch of fancy French that made the poor waiter go, “Ah. Oui, monsieur,” and lead them further into the restaurant to a table set for five with a breadbasket filled with croissants placed in the middle.

Taking their seats led to another bit of commotion, as John had barely sat down before George and Ringo attacked the chairs on either side of him, throwing themselves into them like they were playing ‘Musical chairs’ while glaring up at Trini like they thought he was about to snatch the seats from underneath their bums. John could only shake his head in apology and hope that Trini had more patience than him. Surprisingly, Paul, who’d been sticking to John like a mosquito all day, seemed perfectly content to follow Trini around the table, taking the seat directly opposite John.

“Look at that,” George said, pointing at the napkins folded to stand like towers by their plates. “Bet even those are bigger than the Blackpool Tower, eh, Ringo?”

“Seen bigger napkins at the chippy in Dingle,” Ringo said, still in a mood from having lost the debate about the height of the two towers.

“And look at that!” John gave a low whistle as he looked up and down the menu. “More courses than there are strippers in Hamburg, I reckon.”

“Seen fancier menus at the chippy in Dingle,” Ringo said obstinately.

John stuffed a croissant in his mouth.

“Dingle?” Trini looked from Ringo to John.

“It’s a shithole in Liverpool,” John said, pointing his thumb at Ringo, “He’s from Dingle. Which explains a lot. They’ve all got big beaks down there.”

“That’s not the only big thing I’ve—” Ringo’s snigger was cut short by John shoving another croissant in his mouth.

“Sounds a bit like the Bronx back in New York,” Trini said, smiling as he took another croissant and chewed it with a bit more grace than Ringo.

“That’s where we’re trying to go,” Paul sighed, studying the menu like he had any fucking clue what it said, the little social climber.

“You wanna go to the Bronx?”

“Yeah, the Bronx,” George jumped in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Always been our dream that, to see the Bronx. Never mind New York itself, y’know. Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Central Park. Sod all that. What we wanna see is the Bronx.”’

John gave him a solid kick under the table. “Stop actin’ like he’s nicked one of your guitars,” he hissed. George huffed and buried his head in the menu again.

Trini, trying to build bridges instead of burning them, cleared his throat and asked in a friendly voice: “Guitars, you say? I only have the one, and Lord knows I treat it like it’s made of glass. Having more than one would be a luxury. How many guitars do you own, George?”

George’s eyes skewered Trini above the menu. “I don’t own guitars, guitars own me.”

Ringo gaped, mouth filled with dough, Paul ducked behind the menu, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, Trini blinked, and John was just about to give George the kick of his life, when the straitjacket waiter reappeared with a bottle of wine, wrinkling his nose at Ringo’s open mouth before taking their orders.

John was more than happy to let Trini order that boeuf-thing for him, but his bandmates, who all seemed to have a developed a grudge against the poor American for some reason, stubbornly ordered on their own like they were all fluent in French. Which they weren’t, based on the waiter’s scornful face. John certainly wouldn’t be leaving any tip for him.

“So, what’s New York like?” Paul, who’d been relatively quiet up till now, looked sideways at Trini, nipping his wine all the while like a bloody aristocrat.

“Ah, it’s like another planet, compared to Europe,” Trini replied. “The skyscrapers, the people, the technology. I know you boys are waiting for your first number one over there, but even if that never happens, you gotta come visit the place.” That last bit he said while focusing exclusively on John. “Honestly, John, I’d be happy to show you around anytime.”

Before John had a chance to answer, George choked on his wine. To make matters worse, he seemed to aim the subsequent cough directly at Trini, showering him in spittle. Trini started to swear rather colourfully, but it soon changed into a painful yelp as Ringo appeared to have kicked him under the table this time.

“Sorry, Trini,” Ringo said cheerfully. “As a drummer I get this urge to just kick out sometimes. Like I’m kickin’ a bass drum, y’know?”

Trini looked like he didn’t know, and that he’d like to remind Ringo that you didn’t kick bass drums as much as you just stomped the pedal. But Paul, who’d seemed completely unaffected by the ruckus, spoke up just then, eyes resting thoughtfully on John.

“It’s true you need someone to show you around a new place. Especially when you’re without your glasses.” He put a fingertip to his mouth in that old habit of his. Only this time the finger brushed lightly against his bottom lip, drawing John’s gaze. Paul smiled like he’d just plucked a new melody out of the air. “But I reckon we’ll just figure it out together. Like we did when we first went to Paris. Just the two of us.”

Whether that last sentence was aimed at John or Trini or both, it did the trick in getting everyone’s attention. Trini suddenly seemed to have forgotten his spit flecked shirt as he studied Paul with a bit more apprehension. “You and John went to Paris together?”

Paul didn’t even look at Trini, busy as he was holding John’s eyes captive with his own.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. ‘Bout two years ago now. You see, John had gotten this money from an auntie of his, and he decided to share it all with me. We hitchhiked to Paris, stayed in a hotel, slept in the same bed, spent all our time together, really… Here, look.” He reached across the table and gently pulled John’s hand into his. John felt like his skin had become hypersensitive all of a sudden. Paul’s fingers were calloused, but somehow still softer than silk. And they were currently caressing the line in his palm.

“Met this old fortune-teller who stayed in the same hotel. Did some palm reading for us. She said this line right here,” he followed the line with his finger, and John felt his palm tingling, “this line means untold fame. I know we’re gonna make it big. I know we’re goin’ to America soon. And when we do, we’ll figure out the place on our own, thanks.”

If Paul starts lookin’ at me or Eppy or George Martin the same way he’s currently lookin’ at Trini, we’ll all do whatever he wants. And I’m not supposed to let anyone tell me what to do.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care though. Confidence had always looked good on Paul.

The food arrived in the middle of this tense atmosphere, and John drew a sigh of relief. “The fuck is this?” George wanted to know, inspecting his bowl filled with what looked like smooth, brown stones you might find in a riverbed.

Trini had a look. “That’s escargot. Or snails, as you might say.”

“You takin’ the piss?”

“No. Those are snails. It’s a traditional French dish.”

“Well, their traditions can go hang themse—”

“And what’s with this?” Ringo cut in, staring uncertainly at his own bowl of yellowy broth.

“Bouillabaisse. It’s a fish soup.”

Ringo gaped. “Fish?! I can get fish at the chippy in Dingle! I don’t wanna eat fish at a restaurant!”

“Then you shouldn’t’ve ordered it then, should ya?” John snapped, fed up with all their whining as he took an angry bite out of his own dish… And almost spat it back out again.

Not because it tasted bad or anything, but because in that exact moment, Paul’s foot brushed against his leg. The sneaky bastard had kicked off his shoe and apparently wanted to entertain himself by playing footsie under the table. John tried for one of his well-aimed kicks, but Paul evaded it with practiced ease, sinking lower in his chair so that his foot reached John’s knee and started exploring the inside of his thigh. John pressed his legs together, trapping the foot, but it was too late. Paul stilled for a moment, smiling wickedly at John, before he wriggled his toes against a certain spot and John convulsed violently.

Everyone stared.

“You alright?” Ringo asked.

“Didn’t eat a snail or anythin’, did ya?” George chimed in.

John cleared his throat with some effort. “No,” he gritted out. Paul’s toes were still prodding at his dick. Which John reckoned was a fair bit taller than both the Eiffel Tower and the Blackpool Tower at the moment. “No, no snails.”

“Good,” George huffed. “Cause I wouldn’t eat those things if me life depended on it. They better have some tasty macarons for dessert.”

Paul, in the meantime, still wearing that insufferable smirk, started running his thumb and index finger up and down the stem of his wine glass in a very suggestive manner, not taking his doe eyes off John for a second.

John had no idea if the meal was as good as Trini had promised. He hardly tasted any of it. He had enough on his plate already. Paul was eating his coq au vin completely undisturbed, not letting up his torture until the snooty waiter came back to enquire about desserts. Only then did he retract his foot and seemingly slip his shoe back on. And at that point John had lost all appetite. At least for food.

To George’s dismay, they didn’t have macarons on the dessert menu. But they had something the waiter called Crêpes Suzette flambé, which he agreed to try.

Trini, who’d been gradually retreating into a sullen silence since his stand-off with Paul, piped up again. “You should ask to have them flambéed tableside, George. That’s always a treat to watch.”

George was likely to turn down any treat suggested by Trini at the moment, but he also hoped to show Ringo something he wouldn’t’ve seen at the chippy in Dingle, so he agreed again.

“Although I should say,” Trini said, as the waiter left with George’s order, “that it’ll cost you extra. This is gonna be a hefty bill no matter how we slice it. But” he continued, smiling brilliantly, “the three of you can afford it, no problem. You’re The Beatles, after all. Ah, that reminds me; John, would you mind covering my share? I’ll pay you back tomorrow after the gig.”

It was in that moment John realised that he hadn’t brought any money. And judging from the three panicked expressions mirrored back to him around the table, neither had the other Beatles. Bloody macarons! Makin’ us forget about actual money!

He exchanged looks with Paul. How’re we gonna get out of this one, Macca? He doubted their old routine of staging a mock fight and getting thrown out would suffice in this place. The staff were more likely to call the police.

Before John was even close to formulating a plan, the waiter returned, wheeling in a small trolley with what looked like a tiny gas burner and a pan with a couple of triangulated pancakes resting on a silver platter beside. Trini smiled in anticipation. He doesn’t know we can’t pay for any of this yet.

The trolley stopped by the confounded George, who watched in perplexity along with the rest of them as the waiter, who looked like he was about to perform a goddamn surgery, started a bizarre sequence of events. He turned on the gas, poured oil into the pan, cooked the weird-looking pancakes, drenched it all in liquor … and then set fire to the bloody thing. At which point another bizarre sequence of events started.

“FUCKIN’ HELL!!” Ringo shrieked, loud enough to make the professional waiter jump rather unprofessionally backwards, lose his footing, and land on his back on the nearest dining table. The fine diners seated there barely got a taste of their fancy food, as most of it ended up anywhere but in their mouths. Meanwhile, George, in a rather panicked state, grabbed the nearest liquid he could find and threw it on the burning pan. Unfortunately, the nearest liquid he could find was in his wine glass. The flames climbed higher with a mighty whoosh! and the guests roared fearfully in response. Everyone stumbled to their feet. Trini’s smile of anticipation had made a drastic turn to a grimace of pure dread at this point.

John decided to take matters into his own hands. He grabbed their tablecloth and yanked. Snails and fish soup and wine and silverware crashed to the floor in a seemingly endless cacophony (Ringo snatched the last croissants before they hit the ground). John then began to beat the flames with the cloth, like he’d seen done once on the docks in Liverpool. The thought behind it was sound enough, and no one could fault his enthusiasm, but John still had this ongoing rebellion against wearing his glasses, and his aim never was that good anyway. Consequently, the cloth fell on fire and people alike. The waiter, who’d recovered enough to retrieve a water carafe at least, got smacked in the face so hard he fell backwards onto another table, the water drenching a small child instead, who let the entire restaurant know he wasn't very happy about that.

Everyone standing in John’s vicinity took a good, old beating from the tablecloth until it finally caught fire. At which point brave Paul McCartney had had enough.

“RUN FOR IT!” he screamed.

Ringo, clutching his croissants, obeyed immediately, sprinting for the exit. Paul and George grabbed a still partially blind John and propelled him forwards, yelling “FIRE! FIRE!” to anyone who would listen.

They didn’t stop running till they were halfway up Champs-Élysées, all four of them resting their hands on their knees (Ringo still holding a croissant in each), ignoring the gawking spectators and waiting for their heart rates to slow down.

“Well,” Ringo said between gulps of air, “we don’t have to pay the bill at least.”

A giggle burst out of John’s mouth. And another one. And then he couldn’t stop, and neither could the others. It took a good five minutes before they recovered enough to breathe properly and another ten minutes before John remembered he should be angry.

But by then they were well away from any street where a policemen would possibly look for them. And they’d all agreed to keep this little incident a secret from Eppy. No need for him to get involved. They’d had it under the control, hadn’t they? Course they had.

They stopped by a photo shop. Paul and George wanted to buy cameras. They had this notion of wanting to commemorate the day where The Beatles nearly started a fire. Though George swiftly traded the camera with Ringo for a crushed croissant instead.

“‘Let us tag along, John. We’ve always wanted to dine out in Paris. We’ve always wanted to try French cuisine’. You twats! That’s the last time I’m lettin’ you lot tell me what to do!”

“Move a little to the left, John!” Ringo said, adjusting the camera.

John moved a little to the left.

“Look at me, John!” Paul demanded, clicking away.

John looked at Paul.

“Trini’s never gonna speak to me again,” he complained after letting Paul and Ringo tell him what to do.

“Well, yeah, you did hit him pretty hard with that tablecloth, mate,” George deadpanned, gnawing on his croissant.

“Only cause you tried to burn the fuckin’ place down!”

George snorted. “That place deserved to burn down. What sort of French restaurant doesn’t have macarons on the menu?”

“Think they sorted it all out once we left to be honest,” Paul said, looking all pleased as he snapped another picture of John. “Reckon we’re the greatest fire hazard that restaurant will ever know, so they should be in the clear now. Unless we fancy another visit.”

Vigorous headshakes from all three.

“Then how about this. There’s this café on the West Bank that John and I used to go to. Nice, cozy place. No snails or burning food or anythin’. And they’ve got all kinds of macarons.”

He raised his eyebrows at John.

John contemplated for a second. If he remembered correctly, that café had some big, billowy tablecloths that were perfect for playing footsie. Paul had one-upped him at the restaurant, but maybe it was time to return the favour…

“Alright,” he smiled, throwing his arms around the three of them. “Let’s all go there this time. And let’s be quick about it. Think I spot some of Ringo’s fans on that street corner over there.”

“As if you could spot anythin’,” Ringo muttered. “And besides, if we do run into some of my fans, I’m just gonna enjoy it. Boys or birds. Who knows how long this will all last anyway.”

A few days later ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ became number one in America.

And then it never ended.