it's me again (hahaha)
hello idk maybe i'm the only person posting/viewing these days but w/e
well here's a chapter of my fic!! i hope you enjoy
Title: Split
Author(s): charliewhats
Pairing: George/Ringo, Ringo/Maureen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: strong language
Disclaimer: none of this happened, i own nothing, no libel intended
The first plane journey George had been on as a Beatle had taken half an hour, clear across the country, and he had cried incessantly throughout. It wasn't his fault; the journey had started off badly - his window was open and he was quite sure he would get sucked out of it (never mind that they hadn't taken off yet). That, he thought, would be enough to put anyone out of joint, but the others didn't seem to agree, and afterwards even Brian admitted to considering acts of violence. The journey shook him so badly that for the rest of the day he clung to Ringo, refused to speak to any journalists and vowed never to fly again.
After over a year of near-constant flight, though, he had become substantially more used to it; nowadays all he had to do was sing a little mantra in his head, hold Ringo's hand while they were taking off, and he would be just fine. It just took a little mental preparation.
When Brian phoned that evening, however, George had spent the last two hours lying on the floor, chain smoking and listening to Bob Dylan; he didn't feel particularly mentally prepared at all. He cursed himself for forgetting, piling on a heap of unnecessary panic into the bargain, so that when he finally went to bed he couldn't sleep despite being exhausted. He must have slept for about four hours altogether, being woken constantly by vertigo-inducing dreams that left him in cold sweats.
By the morning, he was overtired, restless, and could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. As he clambered unsteadily into the car, the others exchanged looks, and he gave them all a savage glare. He watched, too, as Ringo put out his hand automatically to meet his, then hastily withdrew it. At this time in the morning, George was in too bad a mood to start feeling miserable about things, so the uncomfortable look on Ringo's face gave him some small, petty kind of pleasure.
Everyone was still half-asleep, so there was little conversation during the journey. George watched Ringo, too tired to bother with subtlety; he was pressed up against the window, looking far too tiny and adorable for his own good, or George's. In particular, it was the way his hair stuck up that got to George, perhaps because he could picture the scene so well; combing his fingers through that hair in bed long after they were supposed to have got up, covering Ringo's sleepy face in kisses and making him giggle in the morning sunlight.
He slumped further down in his seat, wishing he was still asleep.
As they were getting out of the car, George stumbled on the side of the door, almost tripping over; Ringo put out a hand to stop him, grasping his wrist. 'Steady.'
After a brief moment, George scowled at him, wrenching his arm away. Ringo pressed his lips into something resembling a smile and started following the others towards the plane, waving limply at the teeming crowds pressed behind the barriers. As they climbed up the steps, he kept one eye on George, watching for a waver or a stumble, but he was gripping the handrail tightly, standing icily still on the step below.
On the plane, they filed into their usual seats; John and Paul on one side of the aisle, George and Ringo on the other, with Ringo in the window seat, because George didn't like seeing out. Ringo was halfway sat down before it occurred to him that perhaps George wouldn't want to be sat next to him - but George sat almost aggressively beside him, shooting him an expectant look as if daring him to say something. Licking his lips nervously, Ringo turned to stare out of his window instead, watching the tiny figures on the runway until they blurred in front of his eyes.
He jumped when the pilot's voice crackled through the speakers above, and glanced again at George, who was now staring directly ahead, hands clasped in his lap. Ringo could tell he was worried, he always knew - but then, he was hardly in a position to do anything about it, not anymore.
A few hours later - maybe two or three, George reckoned - Ringo was reading the paper, the broadsheet fully open on his lap so he looked tiny behind it. George suspected that he was trying to make himself look as small as possible.
The plane was noisy, filled as usual with the sound of people chatting, arguing - but in their particular corner of the plane, even with all the noise around, there was the same heaviness, the same tension that came with silence. Perhaps it was because they always used to talk to each other incessantly on planes, Ringo keeping up a constant flow of topics, daft jokes that distracted George and almost relaxed him. Despite everything, he still wished that he was talking to Ringo now; not about anything particular, just talking, the same way they always had done.
He was always thinking like this now - hating Ringo for what he had done, yet knowinghe was still in love with him, knowing out of all the longing for the times before all this. It was infinitely more painful this way, too; a clean break would have been so much easier, far easier than all this doubting and pining and sickness. Sometimes (more than sometimes) he could hardly think of any good reason why he didn't go straight back to Ringo; what was the point in stewing over what he had done when he was still so much in love with him?
And yet (this was the worst, bloody conflicting emotions), if he did go back to Ringo, it wouldn't be the same. For all the obvious reasons - because he was married now, and in a few months he'd have a child; there was an entirely new facet of Ringo's life that didn't include George at all. Maybe - maybe George was too selfish, too possessive, but he had always been used to sharing every part of his life with Ringo, and vice versa. That, he thought, was what made their relationship special; they were more than just a couple, more than just bandmates, more than just friends.
Ringo could tell George all he liked that he still loved him, but George couldn't bring himself to believe him any more; that, perhaps was what hurt the most.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost forgot he was on a plane and almost forgot to work himself into a state; but when another announcement came over the PA, telling the passengers that they were "experiencing some mildturbulence, so if you'd like to put your seatbelts back on", that did the job fairly well.
'You all right?'
It felt as if every muscle in his body was stretched to breaking point, and his hands shook so violently he could barely do up his seatbelt.
'Yes, I'm fine.'
His voice was stiff, the words forced, but nevertheless Ringo nodded slowly, turning away, though he kept glancing across at George, who now felt slightly ill. He rested his elbows in his lap, and stared at the floor, concentrating very intently on his own feet.
He was conscious of Ringo's eyes on him again, and wanted to grasp his shoulders, shout at him to stop, or maybe he wanted to grasp his shoulders and kiss all over his face; either way, he wasn't going to, because he really felt too sick to look up.
'George, are you sure you're - '
'Yes, I'm fine,' he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes still firmly on the floor; though at that moment he heard a judder from somewhere deep within a plane, and his stomach lurched.
He sat up again, trying carefully to keep his breaths sounding somewhere close to controlled, and fixed his eyes on some faraway point, far as possible from Ringo and the plane and the unsettling noises from the engine. that everyone else, amazingly, seemed not to hear.
Another rumble came, jolting George so he couldn't keep a small, panicked, pathetic noise from escaping his lips. There was a real sick feeling in his stomach now, and his head was pounding, his chest aching - and he found he really no longer cared about everything that had gone on between him and Ringo; all he wanted to do was cling to him, bury his face in his comforting shoulder, until the whole journey was over. He would have done it there and then, but he found himself frozen into his seat.
'George - '
He heard Ringo's voice - again - quite clearly, but didn't respond, not when he was concentrating hard as he was on not vomiting, or crying, or both. When Ringo's hand brushed deliberately against his, he clung to it without a second's thought. It only occured to him a moment later, and by then Ringo was laying a newspaper over their clasped hands (as he always did), so that no-one could see - it was all so practised, so normal, that George didn't feel as if he could say anything.
He stayed silent instead, his shaky nerves immensely calmed now, and ran his fingers rhythmically over Ringo's hand; he could remember every last bump and imperfection, and loved them all mindlessly, unconditionally.
For the rest of the journey, Ringo did not look at him once, but never let go of his hand.
well here's a chapter of my fic!! i hope you enjoy
Title: Split
Author(s): charliewhats
Pairing: George/Ringo, Ringo/Maureen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: strong language
Disclaimer: none of this happened, i own nothing, no libel intended
The first plane journey George had been on as a Beatle had taken half an hour, clear across the country, and he had cried incessantly throughout. It wasn't his fault; the journey had started off badly - his window was open and he was quite sure he would get sucked out of it (never mind that they hadn't taken off yet). That, he thought, would be enough to put anyone out of joint, but the others didn't seem to agree, and afterwards even Brian admitted to considering acts of violence. The journey shook him so badly that for the rest of the day he clung to Ringo, refused to speak to any journalists and vowed never to fly again.
After over a year of near-constant flight, though, he had become substantially more used to it; nowadays all he had to do was sing a little mantra in his head, hold Ringo's hand while they were taking off, and he would be just fine. It just took a little mental preparation.
When Brian phoned that evening, however, George had spent the last two hours lying on the floor, chain smoking and listening to Bob Dylan; he didn't feel particularly mentally prepared at all. He cursed himself for forgetting, piling on a heap of unnecessary panic into the bargain, so that when he finally went to bed he couldn't sleep despite being exhausted. He must have slept for about four hours altogether, being woken constantly by vertigo-inducing dreams that left him in cold sweats.
By the morning, he was overtired, restless, and could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. As he clambered unsteadily into the car, the others exchanged looks, and he gave them all a savage glare. He watched, too, as Ringo put out his hand automatically to meet his, then hastily withdrew it. At this time in the morning, George was in too bad a mood to start feeling miserable about things, so the uncomfortable look on Ringo's face gave him some small, petty kind of pleasure.
Everyone was still half-asleep, so there was little conversation during the journey. George watched Ringo, too tired to bother with subtlety; he was pressed up against the window, looking far too tiny and adorable for his own good, or George's. In particular, it was the way his hair stuck up that got to George, perhaps because he could picture the scene so well; combing his fingers through that hair in bed long after they were supposed to have got up, covering Ringo's sleepy face in kisses and making him giggle in the morning sunlight.
He slumped further down in his seat, wishing he was still asleep.
As they were getting out of the car, George stumbled on the side of the door, almost tripping over; Ringo put out a hand to stop him, grasping his wrist. 'Steady.'
After a brief moment, George scowled at him, wrenching his arm away. Ringo pressed his lips into something resembling a smile and started following the others towards the plane, waving limply at the teeming crowds pressed behind the barriers. As they climbed up the steps, he kept one eye on George, watching for a waver or a stumble, but he was gripping the handrail tightly, standing icily still on the step below.
On the plane, they filed into their usual seats; John and Paul on one side of the aisle, George and Ringo on the other, with Ringo in the window seat, because George didn't like seeing out. Ringo was halfway sat down before it occurred to him that perhaps George wouldn't want to be sat next to him - but George sat almost aggressively beside him, shooting him an expectant look as if daring him to say something. Licking his lips nervously, Ringo turned to stare out of his window instead, watching the tiny figures on the runway until they blurred in front of his eyes.
He jumped when the pilot's voice crackled through the speakers above, and glanced again at George, who was now staring directly ahead, hands clasped in his lap. Ringo could tell he was worried, he always knew - but then, he was hardly in a position to do anything about it, not anymore.
A few hours later - maybe two or three, George reckoned - Ringo was reading the paper, the broadsheet fully open on his lap so he looked tiny behind it. George suspected that he was trying to make himself look as small as possible.
The plane was noisy, filled as usual with the sound of people chatting, arguing - but in their particular corner of the plane, even with all the noise around, there was the same heaviness, the same tension that came with silence. Perhaps it was because they always used to talk to each other incessantly on planes, Ringo keeping up a constant flow of topics, daft jokes that distracted George and almost relaxed him. Despite everything, he still wished that he was talking to Ringo now; not about anything particular, just talking, the same way they always had done.
He was always thinking like this now - hating Ringo for what he had done, yet knowinghe was still in love with him, knowing out of all the longing for the times before all this. It was infinitely more painful this way, too; a clean break would have been so much easier, far easier than all this doubting and pining and sickness. Sometimes (more than sometimes) he could hardly think of any good reason why he didn't go straight back to Ringo; what was the point in stewing over what he had done when he was still so much in love with him?
And yet (this was the worst, bloody conflicting emotions), if he did go back to Ringo, it wouldn't be the same. For all the obvious reasons - because he was married now, and in a few months he'd have a child; there was an entirely new facet of Ringo's life that didn't include George at all. Maybe - maybe George was too selfish, too possessive, but he had always been used to sharing every part of his life with Ringo, and vice versa. That, he thought, was what made their relationship special; they were more than just a couple, more than just bandmates, more than just friends.
Ringo could tell George all he liked that he still loved him, but George couldn't bring himself to believe him any more; that, perhaps was what hurt the most.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost forgot he was on a plane and almost forgot to work himself into a state; but when another announcement came over the PA, telling the passengers that they were "experiencing some mildturbulence, so if you'd like to put your seatbelts back on", that did the job fairly well.
'You all right?'
It felt as if every muscle in his body was stretched to breaking point, and his hands shook so violently he could barely do up his seatbelt.
'Yes, I'm fine.'
His voice was stiff, the words forced, but nevertheless Ringo nodded slowly, turning away, though he kept glancing across at George, who now felt slightly ill. He rested his elbows in his lap, and stared at the floor, concentrating very intently on his own feet.
He was conscious of Ringo's eyes on him again, and wanted to grasp his shoulders, shout at him to stop, or maybe he wanted to grasp his shoulders and kiss all over his face; either way, he wasn't going to, because he really felt too sick to look up.
'George, are you sure you're - '
'Yes, I'm fine,' he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes still firmly on the floor; though at that moment he heard a judder from somewhere deep within a plane, and his stomach lurched.
He sat up again, trying carefully to keep his breaths sounding somewhere close to controlled, and fixed his eyes on some faraway point, far as possible from Ringo and the plane and the unsettling noises from the engine. that everyone else, amazingly, seemed not to hear.
Another rumble came, jolting George so he couldn't keep a small, panicked, pathetic noise from escaping his lips. There was a real sick feeling in his stomach now, and his head was pounding, his chest aching - and he found he really no longer cared about everything that had gone on between him and Ringo; all he wanted to do was cling to him, bury his face in his comforting shoulder, until the whole journey was over. He would have done it there and then, but he found himself frozen into his seat.
'George - '
He heard Ringo's voice - again - quite clearly, but didn't respond, not when he was concentrating hard as he was on not vomiting, or crying, or both. When Ringo's hand brushed deliberately against his, he clung to it without a second's thought. It only occured to him a moment later, and by then Ringo was laying a newspaper over their clasped hands (as he always did), so that no-one could see - it was all so practised, so normal, that George didn't feel as if he could say anything.
He stayed silent instead, his shaky nerves immensely calmed now, and ran his fingers rhythmically over Ringo's hand; he could remember every last bump and imperfection, and loved them all mindlessly, unconditionally.
For the rest of the journey, Ringo did not look at him once, but never let go of his hand.