Work Text:
1969
“They still down there?” John asked.
“Yes,” George answered, not turning from his spot at the window.
“Scruffy little devils, aren’t they?” Paul asked.
“I dunno,” George muttered. “You’d be scruffy too, waitin’ around for us to come down.”
“They can keep bloody waitin’,” John huffed angrily. He started in his row with Paul again.
George continued to ignore them. This was hardly the first time he’d been caught in this situation. He used to try and get involved, to stop them or some horrible notion like that, but he blatantly disregarded them both now. There wasn’t any point. They just went back and forth on the same damn things over and over and George wasn’t going to stoop to their level and make the whole thing worse. Maybe it was arrogant for him to believe himself above them, but he didn’t see the point in degrading himself in such a way.
Instead, he occupied his mind by staring down at the lonesome souls on the street. There were always some there, waiting for their next-to-impossible chance of meeting a Beatle. The people who passed them eyed the crowd mockingly, but they hardly lost hope. Today, one in particular stood out to him, a man in a long, dark coat, who was holding a bunch of red and purple flowers in his hand.
George thought he looked quite familiar, as if he’d seen him somewhere before, but time and drugs and endless seas of faces had made him forgetful, so his brain came up with nothing. The man had been at the corner the whole day, the only one who’d waited that long and hadn’t given up yet. A devilish part of George wished that he would, longed for the disappointment to turn him away, but another part of him felt sorry for the lot of them.
Maybe it was stupid, but he had a strange fascination with those Scruffs, the Apple Scruffs, his Apple Scruffs. Perhaps it was because they gave him a sense of power, and from his place at the window, he felt that power. He was here, inside, not harshing the chill he knew blew through the streets, not waiting for something he knew wouldn’t happen.
The man in the coat looked up to the window, and George leaned away, not wanting to be spotted. It seemed that was when Paul and John realized George was still in the room, and they immediately tried to get him involved in their contrived argument.
“No way,” George said, standing up. “I’m leaving, you two have fun with your foreplay.”
The angry face Paul made was enough to really force George out the door, sunk into his big coat, deciding against taking home his guitars today. At least, in favor of getting thrust back into the stupidity of John and Paul’s fifteenth fight in the past five hours.
He shuffled down the stairs and past the studio attendants quickly, hardly stopping to say goodbye. He didn’t care if they thought him rude or dismissive. That’s how rockstars were supposed to be.
At the last turn, he hesitated. Should he sneak out the back and into the car he knew was waiting for him, or brave his Scruffs?
George thought again of the familiar-unfamiliar man who’d waited on the corner all day, and that compelled him to push out the front door instead of the easier, saner, wiser choice of just leaving where no one would see him.
When George broke out onto the cold doorstep, the buzz of the small crowd died instantaneously. If he didn’t hate cliches he would have said you’d’ve been able to hear a pin drop. At first, no one rushed to him. It was, maybe, that they’d gotten used to the waiting, but had never thought of what would happen if one of them actually just stepped out there.
They didn’t… flock to him like they used to.
George could remember the way that felt, how people wanted so desperately just to touch him, damn all if he had passed out from the overstimulation of a crowd or was terribly ill or what have you. No, here right on the street, no one even moved. The pack of them stared and he stared back, and someone shouted, “Why are you down so early?” and then they were all yelling.
The guards by the door made faces, but George glared at them and made them open the gate. They barred too many of the real crazies from getting at him, (as such, there would always be some of those), but there were plenty of perfectly respectable people standing and waiting for him to say something.
“Er- hi,” he said.
“H- Hello,” one young girl said, stepping forward, breaking the awkward tension.
George smiled at her, she couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Probably skipping school just the once to see if she could meet a man of her dreams.
“W- Would you sign this for me?” she asked, holding out a record. It was Rubber Soul, and he smiled again, glad to know that their music from older, simpler times still held the attention of the people.
“Have you got a pen?” he asked.
She nodded, pulling one from her pocket.
“Would you like me to make it out to someone?”
She shook her head. “You could- Could you just say ‘Love, George Harrison’?”
“Of course, my dear,” he said, and signed the record for her.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” the girl said, and she went on her way. A group of girls followed her as she was leaving, perhaps having dared her to wait there and talk to one of them.
An older woman threw herself at him when the girls had gone, and George had to call a guard to take her away. It wasn’t his preferred method of dealing with such accostings, but… desperate times.
He spoke to several more fans, signed more records and posters and pictures. Some didn’t talk to him, waiting for John or Paul instead, but most were satisfied. He enjoyed being among them, these fans who treated him a bit more normally, not like he was just some rag doll they could pull around and marvel at. He took a few pictures, administered a few hugs, but it felt a lot less bothersome and intrusive than it had been in past years.
Eventually, all those that wished to talk to him had their fill, and George went to the one he wished to speak to most. Up close, the man was much shorter than George would have thought, and held his flowers at his side, almost in defeat. He was turned away and George snuck up on him, tapping him lightly on the shoulder to get his attention. The man turned around and upon seeing who it was, gaped a bit.
“Are those for me?” George asked, wanting to make such a meeting seem more normal.
“Y- Yes, grew ‘em myself,” the man answered quickly. He held the flowers out to George, and he took them in his hand, leaning in to smell them. Some he could tell held no fragrance at all, but the big red roses did. George knew what those meant ( love ), but the asters mixed in with them meant more. They were flowers for gods, for royalty, for those you worshipped. George looked up at the man.
“Would you have given these to any of us or am I special?”
“If it had been anyone else besides you I would have turned home,” the man answered earnestly.
“How do I know you’re not just saying that?”
“Suppose you’ve just got to trust.”
“Suppose I do,” George smiled, and there must have been a tiny part of the man’s heart breaking inside.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“It’s the same one it’s been the last five times.”
George stumbled a bit in his place. That was why the man was so familiar, they’d met before.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but you must understand—”
“It’s alrigh’,” the man smiled, (he had a very cute smile), “I expected as much, an’ the last time was several years ago, I doubt you’d’ve remembered after that long. My name’s Richard. You can call me Ringo if you like.” That was an interesting nickname, but George wasn’t invested in its origin story.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you—again,” he said, sticking out his hand.
Ringo seemed surprised at the gesture, as he was probably surprised that George had bothered to ask his name at all, but he took the musician’s hand anyway.
Suddenly George had been pulled into a hug, but he didn’t mind it so much. He and John and Paul never touched much anymore and it’d been weeks since Pattie had bothered to come stay in London with him, so he was a bit touch starved. Sometimes fans were nice for that bit of personal comfort. (Not like he felt they owed him that, they didn’t.)
He discreetly motioned to the guard that this was of his own accord, and Ringo pulled away a bit sheepishly.
“Sorry—I’m sorry,” he muttered, and George put a hand on his arm.
“It’s alrigh’,” he assured with a soft smile, “I understand.” He let his hand fall away. Ringo smiled weakly back, and a silence fell between them.
“Would you like to walk with me?” George asked, and Ringo startled a bit.
“Well, I- uh-,” he stuttered out.
“Please?” George asked, “It's a terribly long walk back to the flat I’m renting, and it’d be a much more interesting trip with a stranger in tow.”
Ringo seemed to hesitate. George tried to guess the war he was having in his mind. It was something like having what you wanted come true right in front of you, and not knowing if you should take the opportunity or not because—what if it wasn’t how you expected? George knew the feeling well.
While Ringo worried away, George looked at him. He was short, yes, but he had a strength to him, a determination. His eyes were bright blue, the kind of color you don’t see very often. His hair was shorn above his shoulders, and he had a thick mustache with no beard. George would think he didn’t look unlike himself, though both his hair and mustache were thinner than Ringo’s. He wondered vaguely if Ringo had gotten his hair cut after the style they’d taken up, and given how he’d had come and waited here, he supposed that could have been true.
Eventually, it seemed Ringo had made a decision.
“How far?”
“Six or so blocks this way,” George said, pointing, “An’ ten that way.”
“Ah.”
They waited in silence a bit longer. While they did, a young boy asked George if he would sign his Sgt. Pepper’s record and he obliged with a smile.
“Alrigh’ then, I’ve no plans today.” Ringo finally agreed.
“Brilliant!” George cried and Ringo chuckled a bit.
George clutched his flowers to his chest, and they began their way down the street. He supposed there were already photographs of the two of them, what with how many people were around and had ready cameras, but he didn’t mind. He could tell Ringo was nervous, though, so he decided to offer a gesture of comfort.
“Take my hand,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Take my hand,” George repeated, switching his flowers to the arm farther from Ringo and offering his right hand out.
Ringo looked at it, and George waved it around a bit as if to say, take the plunge, strange stranger. Bright blue eyes looked up to George’s face, and George grinned at him, letting his sharp teeth poke out of his mouth a bit to tease. Ringo took his hand.
“I like your teeth,” he said. “Sorry,” he apologized immediately, “That must be an odd thing to say.”
Ringo’s hand was warm. Given the five minutes they’d known each other, this made sense to George.
“‘S not,” he reassured. “I don’t like ‘em much, but ‘s nice to know they’re appreciated.” People often said as much about his teeth. He always answered the same way. This time, he felt more like he meant it, though.
He pulled Ringo through the smaller gathering of the Scruffs, of the people beyond the Scruffs, the real crazies. That small link made him feel a bit more grounded, as if he could pass right on through and come out on the other side as a normal person.
They walked in silence down the street and people knew George’s face but didn’t say anything and he saw the turn in the feet of those who wanted to chase after him but were holding back. George glanced over at Ringo again and tried to remember one, any, of the times they had previously crossed paths.
“Sorry,” he said, as they passed from one block to the next, “When exactly have we met before?”
“Ah,” Ringo laughed curtly, “Here and there, first time you were… younger I think, still playing Cavern Club shows. From Liverpool meself, an’ saw you lot play a bit around there. Then, well, you exploded y’know, an’ I got swept up in being a fan an’ all that, went to shows, met you in small bits afterward, nothing more than ‘hello’ and ‘great show’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’.”
The way Ringo said it made George feel old. This same thing had been his life for six or so years now, night after night, show after show, never really changing until they stopped touring, apparently meeting people and forgetting them in the same breath. He was a shit person.
“You’re not,” Ringo said. Oh. He’d said that last bit out loud. “Just... complicated.”
George smiled at him. It was nice to have someone who was so genuine, so understanding, so outside this false world but also part of it.
“Am I your favorite, then?” he joked.
“Yeah,” Ringo blushed, gripping George’s hand a little tighter, taking advantage of this stolen moment. (George thought it was cute.)
“Got a favorite song?”
“While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”
“Favorite album?”
“Revolver.”
“You’ve got good taste,” George laughed good-naturedly. Ringo blushed again. George still thought it was cute.
With Ringo’s small, soft, warm hand clenched tightly in his own, the bouquet of flowers resting comfortably in his arm, George felt like a pageant girl, or maybe a prom queen. Ringo could be his prince, his savior.
“Got a girlfriend?” he asked, because he wanted to hear Ringo’s voice again, and that was certainly one way to go about it, even if he wasn’t so sure what his reaction to the answer would be.
Cross the street again, look both ways, they both took a long breath.
“Yeah,” Ringo said, “She doesn’t like you guys.”
“No?”
“Yeah,” Ringo said again, “Must be the only girl in the country to feel that way, but she just doesn’t.”
“But you like us?” George prompted.
“It doesn’t matter as long as I don’t talk about it in front of her.”
“Mmm,” George agreed.
The silence lapsed. They went two more blocks and George’s feet hurt in his stupid dress shoes and Ringo’s hand was getting sweatier and—
“Why were you down so early?”
“Didn’t want to be up.”
“What’s up?”
“What must come down.”
Ringo guffawed and nudged George with his arm.
“Seriously.”
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“For you? I’d promise worlds.”
George smiled, and he remembered how Ringo told him earlier that he’d just have to trust. He supposed he’d just have to. (Not exactly that anyone would be surprised to learn about the fighting Beatles, they wouldn’t be.)
George explained the situation as best he could: Paul’s perfectionism and John’s individualism and how both of those things took up more space in the studio than anything he did. Ringo nodded along to the story, and George wondered what it was like for him. To hear that his favorite band was breaking apart, was crumbling, was cracking at the seams.
“Can’t say I’m so surprised,” Ringo said when George had finished. Oh, so that was what it was like for him.
“Really?”
“Sure, I mean you’ve all known each other for quite a long time now, been in the spotlight together, been through that shit, it only makes sense that you’d have to come to an end sometime,” Ringo answered solemnly.
George stared at him. They kept walking, but he began to feel as if Ringo held more power than before, strange and wise and kind and like some enigma but also like someone he knew.
He wasn’t scared of Ringo, exactly, it was more like he was intimidated that the man seemed so confident and nonchalant and not terribly nervous like he was starting to become.
They got to the point where they had to turn in the street, and George pulled his fan gently along. Ringo was opening and closing his mouth, trying to decide if he wanted to say something or not. George squeezed his hand.
“What is it?”
“It’s embarrassing,” Ringo blushed.
“Tell me anyway,” George smiled, wishing that this nice, simple, unproblematic conversation could last longer. He rarely had any of those anymore.
“I used to want to be in your band.”
“Used to?”
“Reality sets in eventually,” Ringo smiled a bit sadly.
“What do you play?”
“Drums. Used to be in a band meself, we weren’t much good though, the leader had a rough go of it, an’ you guys…”
George knew how the end of that sentence went. There was hardly anyone who had the opportunity to make it after their success, or get as big, or some such conflict he would never know the reality of.
“You would’ve made a great drummer,” he told Ringo instead of saying any of that. “Better than Pete for sure.” He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but Ringo had this way of procuring the truth from him without even saying anything, and George couldn’t help but give into it.
“You don’t mean that,” Ringo blushed again.
“Sure I do, y’know the band, y’know what a flake Pete is… can hardly be bothered to be around us anymore; only shows up at recording once a week and blows the rest of his time on grass and girls.”
Ringo made a face.
“What?”
“I dunno… maybe it’s finally getting to me.”
“What is?”
“You’re ending.”
“We’re what?” George was confused.
Ringo glanced over at him, and the look in his eyes said everything that George knew was true.
“The band.”
George sighed.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Ringo pressed, digging his short nails into George’s hand a bit, desperate for the answer.
“I- I mean, yeah, I guess we are,” George conceded. “Haven’t had the whole conversation yet, but it’s only a matter of time…” He realized horribly that tears were pooling in his eyes and he tried to brush them away before they fell.
Ringo noticed, though, and he stopped George from walking faster, pulling his hand back. Silently, he gripped George’s chin and let go of his hand to gently swipe away the tear tracks. Somewhere, in a cobwebbed corner of his mind, a light went on.
“I’m sorry,” George whispered when Ringo had taken hold of his hand again.
“Why?”
“Well, you just wanted to talk with me and now I’m fuckin’ cryin-”
“I don’t mind.”
“No?”
“No,” Ringo chuckled a little, “It’s… not the first time I’ve… touched your tears, so to speak.”
George was more confused and sent a questioning glance at Ringo, who was looking over at him with a soft, knowing smile.
“One of those times we met before… it was longer than just hello and goodbye. We— talked… I think you were drunk.” None of this was bringing up any memories for George. Ringo could tell, and he went on to elaborate.
Apparently, after a concert in London in ‘64 George had ended up spending his time post-concert very drunk and very talkative, with Ringo there along for the ride.
“You were saying… you were talking about how you didn’t like the crowds and the noise, said you’d wish you’d just become a—‘bloody electrician’ instead.”
“I don’t remember a lick of this,” George said.
“That’s probably a good thing,” Ringo said quietly, and George wanted to ask him again what he meant, but held his tongue.
“We were in some club… I’d followed your car after the show- John and Pete were trying to pick up girls, Paul had gone to Jane’s instead… it was just us in the back an’ you kept ordering us shots. Dumped mine in empty cups, didn’t want to be blacked out when I was with yo—” Ringo cut himself off, that blush rising in his cheeks again.
“It’s okay,” George grinned, flashing his teeth, “Go on.”
“I don’t know if I should tell you the next part.”
“Maybe you should,” George said, gesturing to the building they had come to a stop in front of, “This is where I get off.”
“Oh,” Ringo said. He let go of George’s hand. He stared down at the ground. He looked back up at George, almost shy, losing all that confidence he’d had earlier.
“I really don’t know if I should tell you.” He was backing away from George, and now his back was nearly against the wall.
“Please,” George pleaded. “It’s important, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ringo whispered.
“Then tell me.” George hadn’t realized he’d gotten so close to Ringo until the top of the bouquet in his hand bumped into Ringo’s hip. There were maybe two feet of space between them, but George felt they were somehow closer. Maybe it was because he was unconsciously leaning in and- why was he doing that?
He stopped.
Their feet were still two feet apart but their heads were much closer. Ringo let out a long breath and George could feel it on his face.
“We got to talking about something, it was making you sad,” Ringo continued, voice shaky.
“Don’t see what’s such a problem with that.”
“We started talking about… fidelity. I guess maybe you thought Pattie was stepping out on you… You asked me if I’d ever cheated before and I said no, and you asked me if I would like to and—”
George remembered. His mind thrust the memory to the front of his brain, the drinking in the smoky bar, his drunken words and thoughts pouring out of him, how Ringo kept glancing over with an adoring look George hadn’t ever received from anyone before.
He pushed Ringo against the wall. Ringo squeaked.
“Then I did something like this, right?” He pressed his lips to Ringo’s and no memory was as good as this. He remembered this, this stolen feeling he’d felt those years ago kissing a man for Christ’s sake in the back of the bar and the delicious, beautiful wrongness of it all.
Ringo wasn’t kissing back and George almost pulled away, but then he felt the shorter man’s soft lips moving against his own and parting softly and George ran his tongue across Ringo’s bottom lip…
George dropped his flowers softly to the ground and put his hands on Ringo’s slim hips, holding him fast to the wall. Ringo gasped and reached his arms up to link around George’s neck, letting their actions do all the talking. As Ringo nipped softly at his lips George felt himself get lighter, like some invisible burden had been ripped clean off his shoulders just from the comfort of kissing a stranger-turned-old-lover.
He drew his mouth away from Ringo’s and skated his lips around behind Ringo’s ear, gently biting the skin there over and over and soothing it with small swipes of his tongue. Each time, Ringo let out a singular little sound, and it was all George could do not to drop to his knees right there.
“George…” Ringo gasped softly, and he let up in his small torture.
“What, my love?” he breathed back.
Ringo chuckled softly and dropped his hands.
“Don’t go callin’ me that, I’ll get attached.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I can’t stay.”
“You could.”
Ringo gave him a look and a sad smile.
“I couldn’t. You know that.”
And George did know that. There were a million reasons why not and as they flew through his mind, he pretended each one of them was irrelevant.
Ringo picked up George’s flowers, which had remained undamaged on their trip to the ground. He handed them back to George and said, “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you. So I’ll just tell you how I love you, and then I’ll be gone.”
George didn’t know what to do. He wanted to beg Ringo to stay, to come up for a cup of tea, or… something else, but all the requests clogged his throat and the only thing his head could come up with was, “I love you too.”
Ringo gave him another long, sad, knowing look, and then he was gone.
George watched him stride down the street and back to the main road, watched as he turned his head a bit and waved goodbye, watched as his own hand waved back solemnly.
He would find later on, after putting his precious flowers in a vase, a card tucked between the blooms.
It read: Don’t pass me by, and then an address.
George put it away for safe-keeping, to use when he finally thought of something worthy to say.
~
1970
Ringo awoke in discomfort.
He did most of the time these days.
With the cold weather came his routine sickness, and with heartbreak on his mind, the whole ordeal was that much worse. He shuffled sleepily into the kitchen, and glanced at the clock. It was already 10:00 in the morning. He put the kettle down on the stove and turned on the burner. Tea wouldn’t make it better, but at least it was warm.
With the water beginning to boil, he crossed to the door and opened it to go down to the mailboxes. Instead, a flat package sat on his front mat, along with a bouquet of flowers. Asters, he realized belatedly.
The hallway was empty; it seemed whoever left the gifts (because what else would they be), was long gone. He bent down and picked them up, then closed the door and went back to the dining room table. The flowers were set down first, and then the package as Ringo peeled off the plain brown paper carefully.
Out of the wrapping paper was a vinyl, and Ringo looked across the cover. He’d seen the same one on posters in the record store, and couldn’t believe he was holding it in his hands. It read, George Harrison — All Things Must Pass on the front, and sure enough, there was George, sitting among a small collection of garden gnomes.
Ringo chuckled softly at that and flipped the record over. On the back was taped a letter, folded neatly with Ringo! scrawled across it in messy handwriting.
This gift was already a wonder, but the letter even more so.
It read:
Dear Ringo,
Are you pleased with me for remembering? But really, how could I forget? I hope you’re well, and that this gift finds you in good spirits—
So much for hoping, Ringo thought.
—or at least well enough. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about you—
Ringo’s heart could’ve stopped, but it kept on somehow.
—and I’m not one to lie. If anyone noticed my attitude change after… what happened, they didn’t say. But it did change. You made me realize, well, I suppose you made me realize it was okay to let go. After all, I let you go… though I swear if I thought you’d let me, I’d have chased you the whole way… So! The Beatles are kaput. You must have seen the story. And I suppose this is the product. I’ll tell you, love—
His eyes became watery at the bottom of his vision.
—so much feeling is in this album. Pain, pleasure, all those little bits in between. If I could have one request of you, it’d be to play track B2 first. You’ll see why. I’d have played it for you earlier if you’d been outside the studio like the girls, but mysteriously, I haven’t seen you ever since that October! Either way, I hope you like it.
Love,
George
P.S. I replanted some of the flowers you gave me, I’m sending you a bouquet back to let you know I feel the same.
Ringo looked up from the letter and blinked tears from his eyes. Even in writing, George was funny and witty and strangely true and benevolent. They’d barely known each other for very long, but even so, his carefully written words held so much meaning.
Slowly, delicately, he slit the vinyl box open and slipped out the second LP.
He took it to the old record player in the corner and tried not to think about how just a few weeks ago this very thing was the subject of a great fight with his ex.
He put the record onto the turntable and moved the needle to the second song. The label read “Apple Scruffs” and as the folky, mouth-organ-filled music began to play, he wondered briefly of the Apple Scruffs. He’d never been an official member or anything, but he knew that people would probably call him by such a title.
Then George’s voice began to sing. And Ringo swore to god he fell in love a thousand times in those few seconds.
You’ve been stood around for years
Seen my smiles and touched my tears
How it’s been a long, long time
And how you’ve been on my mind, my Apple Scruffs
Ringo wasn’t sure when exactly it was that he’d started crying, but he was now. Big teardrops trickled down his face and to the floor, but he was too numb to wipe them away. It was all too much to take, and he kneeled in front of the record player like a child playing their first vinyl.
He listened to the song once and when it ended he lifted the needle up and moved it back again, letting it start over. It was just as beautiful the fourth time as it was the three times before. After that, he let the side spin out, but he was barely listening to the songs anymore. He stood up from where he’d moved to lie down on the floor and brushed a hand over his damp face.
The kettle had been boiling for a while, but if Ringo had heard it whistling away, he didn’t tend to it. He walked into the kitchen and turned the burner off, immediately silencing the high whine that had reverberated around the flat.
He moved slowly to the kitchen table and picked up the letter again. It was such a precious thing. The flowers too, so carefully cultivated from his own. She’d gone and killed them all once when he was away. He was upset about it for weeks and wouldn’t tell her why. Now George had gone and outdone himself by giving these back.
Carefully, Ringo pulled the soft, cream-colored ribbon from the paper on the bouquet, and as the purple flowers fell from their bunch, he found a metal rod with a small card attached to it. On one side was the note he’d written George last year, and on the other side, a new message was printed. I could never pass you by and then a phone number.
It’s needless to say that in the next two seconds the chair Ringo had been sitting in was on the floor, and the man himself already in the next room, quietly, carefully, perfectly hesitating by the telephone.