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The low and muffled grumble of a bass guitar caught Ringo's ear suddenly, piercing the silence of the hallway. He raised a brow in curiosity, set down the book he had been reading on the coffee table - he hadn't been paying attention to it, anyway - and rose to his feet. Nothing interesting had happened that day, and he was eager to find out who was songwriting at such an hour; it was quite late in the night.
This curiosity only increased when indistinct vocal murmurs began to join the instrument, coming softly through the wooden door as though not to wake up everyone else in the rented flat. Ringo could not exactly make out who it was (though he had a guess), and he stepped gingerly toward the end of the hallway in an attempt to hear more clearly without making his presence known. Soon, he was right in front of the door, almost pressing his ear to it. His suspicions were confirmed; the singer was Paul.
Ringo gently pushed open the door. The air was thick with the leafy scent of weed, which Ringo wafted away from his face. Paul was there, of course, sitting on the couch with his head hanging over the bass in his arms and the notebook on the table in front of him, pencil clutched tightly between his fingers. He didn't seem to notice Ringo standing there in the doorway.
"Agh, that doesn't even rhyme," the younger Beatle muttered to himself as he scribbled something down in his notebook. Ringo chuckled.
"Does it need to rhyme?"
Paul jerked at the sudden voice, and the pencil dropped onto the ground. "Ah—Oh, Ringo, it's you. Almost scared me," he said softly, and bent down to find his writing tool.
"Sorry," said Ringo with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Where'd that pencil go?"
"It's alright, Rings. I've got it." He held up the fallen pencil and gave the drummer a quick grin. "What'dya want?"
"Nothing much, just heard ya playing. I've been bloody bored today. What're you working on?"
"Just nothing. Something I've been thinking about." He tilted his head at the other man, who was still standing just outside the doorway. "You can come in, you know. I need some help with these lyrics anyway."
"Oh—sure." Ringo agreed, and Paul could've sworn that his cheeks began to glow a mild pink as the bassist chuckled and beckoned him in. He was probably just seeing things.
The other lad sat on the couch, a little closer to Paul than expected, and looked over his shoulder at the notebook. "So what's wrong with the lyrics?"
"Like I said, Rings, they don't rhyme. And I don't know where to take them from here. I've hit a wall. Can't think of anything."
"Oh. Want me to take a look, then?"
"Sure. It's this line" —he pointed to the middle of the notebook, where he'd scribbled before— "that needs fixing."
"Hm..." murmured Ringo, leaning over Paul's shoulder to examine the line. Their faces, the bassist couldn't help noticing, were extremely close together. Noses almost touching, albeit at an awkward sideways angle.
"Well, you know me. I'm just a drummer. Not sure what good I could do," said the other Beatle, and was just about to stand up from the couch when Paul's hand around his forearm prevented it.
"Well—can you, um, sing it for me? Help me get an idea," he mumbled, without making eye contact.
"Sing it?" The drummer looked at him queerly, surprised by the request. Ringo, singing? "Well, whatever you want. What's the melody?"
Paul played a little tune on his bass to demonstrate, and the other man began to hum. He concentrated on the words in the notebook—something slow-pacer about love—and didn't notice that Paul had been shamelessly gazing at his pale, blue eyes since he started singing. Nor did he notice when his friend scooted just a bit closer.
At last, he got to the bit with the rhyming problem. "Hm? Why've you put that there, Macca? That doesn't even make-"
But his words were cut off.
Because Paul McCartney had pulled him in, by both sides of his jaw, to a sudden and very surprising kiss.
Ringo's eyes immediately shot open in shock, and to Paul's dismay, he did not kiss back.
"What the bloody hell-?" Ringo asked as his friend recoiled in embarrassment, his gaze immediately dropping as though eye contact would kill him on the spot.
"Ah, ah—fuck, Ringsy. I'm sorry. Fuck, fuck—I didn't—I'm so—"
And maybe it was the way his face looked, flustered, beneath that soft mop of black hair, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't gotten any action in weeks, or maybe it was what had had smoked earlier—but, for a reason he couldn't quite discern, Ringo suddenly tilted forward and kissed him back.
Of course, Paul leaned into the kiss. He honestly didn't know what he'd been thinking initiating this in the first place. It was crazy—he seemed crazy. But for weeks he had been looking at Ringo differently. Getting just a little anxious whenever he saw him. His unique blue eyes flashed through his subconscious, the marbly register of his singing voice ghosting his dreams. He had no idea why he had just acted on that unspoken desire—maybe the late hour, or the weed fucking with his brain—but he was glad it had happened. Glad that right now, Ringo Starr's tongue was slipping into his mouth, and his hands were quickly moving down to the small of his back. How he had ended up here?
Electricity crackled in the air between them and Paul closed the gap, pushing Ringo onto his back on the couch. When his shoulders hit the cushion, Paul felt his hands—rough, calloused drummer's hands—cup his neck and tangle with his outgrown hair. His eyes blinked open for just a moment and he saw that Ringo's striking blue orbs were open as well, staring at him as though he had never kissed anyone else before. Those blue eyes—those beautiful blue eyes. Worth writing another song over.
After a few moments, the bassist pulled away.
"Ringsy..?" He asked softly, his cheeks hot and flustered. The man below him was dazed and blushing.
"Paul," responded the mystified drummer, hot-cheeked and breathless. Paul briefly considered returning to the kiss, and maybe trying more than that—maybe, just maybe, he could have Ringo right here, right now, if only he asked—but instead he gingerly retreated, trailing a hand along his friend's side as he leaned away from his face and back into a sitting position. Quickly Ringo followed.
"I should add that to the song, eh?" Paul said quietly, and then began to chuckle.
"If you tell the other lads—" Ringo threatened, just starting to gain awareness of the situation.
"Relax—uh, they'll never know. You've my word."
"Um, good. Thanks, Macca." He said, though he didn't know what he ought to thank him for. Neither Did Paul, but a shock of joy reverberated through his body at the confirmation that the advance had been welcome.
"Anytime, Rings."
And Paul began to scribble a new line into his notebook, painfully aware that his heart was pounding savagely in his chest and his hands were shaking in giddy, teenage excitement. He only hoped Ringo wasn't as aware as he.