chapter 6
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
'You're not going, George.'
'I want to go.'
There was a heavy sigh down the phone, and a pause before John spoke again.
'No, you don't.'
'I do.'
He did want to - he had to. It felt like the only option.
'I'm not letting you go.'
It was the only conceivable way that he might, finally, get over Ringo.
'Paul's not going.'
Because it obviously wasn't meant to happen, for the two of them. Marrying someone else was as clear a sign of that as any.
'Paul's on holiday. I don't have an excuse.'
It had been a mistake to assume that Ringo had ever loved him. Or that he had ever, really, loved Ringo.
'I am not letting you go, George.'
'What, are you gonna tie me down?'
Another sigh. George was surprised he even had the energy to be cheeky.
'You'll only end up getting hurt if you go.'
He knew that, too, but he was trying to ignore that particular fact.
'George, are you listening to anything I'm saying?'
It would hurt more than he could even imagine.
'I'm going, John.'
He was surprised, too, that he had the energy to be this insistent. There was another long pause from John's end.
'Ringo wouldn't want you to go.'
Was that it? Was that supposed to be John's trump card? Did he really think that George was still so hung up that he was constantly veering on the edge of running back to Ringo, apologising for everything that wasn't his fault just so he could hold him in his arms again?
John was entirely right.
'George, are you okay?'
George shook his head, even though he knew John couldn't see him, and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye in an attempt to stem the flow of tears (anything could start him off these days, it seemed; the mention of Ringo's name, the semi-frequent attacks of memories).
'George?'
His voice was softer, lowered, most likely because even if he couldn't see George, he could still hear the weak, choked noises of someone trying not to cry.
'I'm sorry.'
'No - it's - ' George gulped, rubbing at his sore eyes. '- it's okay.'
'It's not, though, is it?'
There was a simple, gentle directness to John's tone, the kind of directness you use to nudge someone towards something they knew anyway.
'What do you think, John?'
'Ritchie, come to bed.'
Ringo looked up from the floor and at Mo. He could taste blood on his lip.
'In a minute.'
'You're just sitting there, Ritchie.'
''M thinking.'
Mo sighed, pulling the sheets up over her knees. 'C'mon, we've got to get up early tomorrow.'
'Yeah, I know ...' He glanced at the clock on the wall.
'I'm going for a walk.'
'Ritchie!' She made an exasperated noise, seizing the alarm clock by the bed.
'God's sake, it's eleven o'clock. It's pitch dark outside.'
'So, no-one'll bother me. I won't be long - '
'What d'you want to go for a walk for, then?'
'Just - ' He gestured aimlessly as he stood up. 'I dunno. Just wanna think about things.'
Mo opened her mouth, but then shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose.
'Fine - fine. You do what you want.'
Ringo smiled weakly, picking up his coat from the back of the chair. 'Be back soon.'
It was so cold outside that Ringo's face felt near-painfully numb, but somehow he didn't mind. The darkness helped too, enveloping everything around him so he didn't have to know where he was. At times like this, it sometimes helped to get a little lost.
For a while he thought about nothing at all; everything there was to think about right now was too painful, too sad. As he rounded a corner, though, thoughts of George crept in, as they always inevitably did.
He wondered what George was doing, right now. Perhaps he was asleep already - no, he wouldn't be, not this early. When George was upset, he didn't sleep properly, didn't eat properly, hardly even spoke. Ringo saw signs of all of this when he looked at George now; the grey circles under his eyes, the cheekbones hollow instead of defined, the weak tremble in his voice.
And it was funny, because Ringo knew how to stop George hurting - he had done it enough times before, stayed up enough late nights holding his hand, kissing the side of his face, whispering in his ear. It was always him that George turned to, the rare times he had been really, truly sad.
Who did George turn to now? Now that it was all Ringo's fault, now that Ringo had let him down - who (and it felt selfish to even think so) would ever care about him as much as Ringo did?
Maybe George would find someone else - maybe, in a year's time, he would be the one getting married. Less than a year's time, even.
Ringo despised himself.
Perhaps - the wind was really starting to blow now, slicing past his face and stinging his eyes - perhaps he could go back now, and perhaps Mo would still be awake, and perhaps she'd listen as he confessed everything, about George, about exactly why he couldn't marry her tomorrow; and perhaps she wouldn't mind being left alone, eighteen, pregnant, and hounded by press that would make everything her fault.
Ringo's eyes were watering now, possibly from the wind, or possibly not. He pulled his coat collar higher, so high that it hid most of his face, and when he came home, Mo had long been asleep.
The crimson-carpeted hallway of the registry office was crowded with various gaggles of well-dressed people, all chatting, all smiling, some bouncing with excitement. The only exceptions to the mass of pre-wedding fervour were two suited young men, stood stiffly by the fireplace with distracted looks on their faces. Eventually, one turned, tapping the other on the shoulder.
'George, are you sure you're okay?'
George blinked a couple of times before he answered.
'Yes, I'm fine.'
John frowned, but said no more, looking down at the floor. With a small sigh, George straightened his tie, watching his reflection in an opposite window.
'Would you like to come through?'
George nearly jumped; the registrar had just appeared from the door beside him, a tall, middle-aged woman who peered over the top of her glasses.
The excited noise in the room rose, and people began filing towards the door. John gave a wan smile, patting George's shoulder.
'Come on.'
He led George through the door into another, more polished room, and they sat towards the back. George leant forwards, resting his head on his hands, and hummed an indistinct melody under his breath.
Again there was a surge of noise, and he sat up, letting out an inaudible groan. He glanced at John, whose face was set in an impassive mask.
Ringo was looking incredibly handsome, hair brushed and suit pressed, if a little tired. He didn't look at George, nor Mo, nor any of the faces in the room, but instead stared fixedly ahead, clinging limply to Mo's hand and wearing a shadow of a smile. George blinked again, and forced his attention towards Maureen instead.
She had always been strikingly pretty, dark-haired with serious eyes and small, delicate lips. She was small all over, in fact, a doll-like figure, tiny even next to Ringo. The fact that Ringo was the taller of the two made George feel vaguely, irrationally uncomfortable; to him Ringo had always been small, small enough to hold and surprise with cuddles, small enough so that he had to stand on tiptoes to kiss George properly.
He was always thinking of things like this, little differences between then and now - and there were so many little differences - that only ever upset him.
The only point during the ceremony when George had really felt as if he might cry was when the registrar had put the wedding ring on Ringo's finger, the gold band placed right next to George's delicate silver one. Chirstmas seemed so long ago now, and his own ring, which he had already suspected to be a size too small, had made an uncomfortable ridge on his finger.
In any case, he had braved off that particular threat of tears, perhaps because the room had been so silent; now, however, people were moving around, chatting loudly and crowding around the happy new couple. Ringo was presently on the opposite side of the room, engaged with some plump, pastel in-laws. Briefly, and probably incidentally, he looked up, and it just so happened that his eye, which was blue, and still the same, caught George's in that moment.
A moment was more than enough.
'George - ?'
There was a helpfully-placed bench just outside, which George sat on, or rather fell onto - he couldn't see very well, his eyes were clouding over. It was Ringo who had called his name just then; maybe those were Ringo's footsteps, and he was coming to sit next to George, and hold his hand, and George wouldn't know how to feel.
'George?'
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a sliver of John sat beside him.
'If you say "I told you so", I'll fucking slap you.'
John gave a weak smile, offering George a rather fluffy tissue. He didn't take it.
'He does worry about you, George. All the time.'
George said nothing, staring at his hands.
'He phoned me up the other night. 'Course, I told him to fuck off - '
One thing he had never really thought about was that ring, which he still wore now, without knowing why. If this was all some daft film, he would've cast it dramatically into the gutter by now.
' - but he was in a huge state. I s'pose you've unplugged your phone?'
'Mm.'
'Yeah, well, he said he'd been calling and calling, saying that he needed to talk to you and he wanted to say sorry - and you know, I wasn't taking any of it - '
He wondered if this was supposed to be making him feel better.
' - he stopped making sense after a while.'
'Was that when you told him to fuck off?'
His own voice sounded shaky, weak, and he tried to ignore it.
'Yes, or thereabouts.'
For a few long seconds, George became engrossed in the ground, wishing he could believe John - no, wishing that what he was saying didn't hurt him more.
'I don't s'pose I'm making you feel any better.'
'You read my mind, Johnny boy.'
There was silence for a few minutes, aside from the never-abating noise from inside.
'George, is there - ' John paused, taking several deep breaths, humming as he exhaled.
' - is there anything - anything I can say to make you feel better? 'Cause - it's not easy for any of us, George, and I know it's ten times worse for you, but I want to get out of this, I want to - '
'I'm sorry.'
'No - no, don't be.' He sighed quietly, looking indescribably tired.
George thought of saying something, but he would only get carried away, only upset himself.
The silence went on.
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
'You're not going, George.'
'I want to go.'
There was a heavy sigh down the phone, and a pause before John spoke again.
'No, you don't.'
'I do.'
He did want to - he had to. It felt like the only option.
'I'm not letting you go.'
It was the only conceivable way that he might, finally, get over Ringo.
'Paul's not going.'
Because it obviously wasn't meant to happen, for the two of them. Marrying someone else was as clear a sign of that as any.
'Paul's on holiday. I don't have an excuse.'
It had been a mistake to assume that Ringo had ever loved him. Or that he had ever, really, loved Ringo.
'I am not letting you go, George.'
'What, are you gonna tie me down?'
Another sigh. George was surprised he even had the energy to be cheeky.
'You'll only end up getting hurt if you go.'
He knew that, too, but he was trying to ignore that particular fact.
'George, are you listening to anything I'm saying?'
It would hurt more than he could even imagine.
'I'm going, John.'
He was surprised, too, that he had the energy to be this insistent. There was another long pause from John's end.
'Ringo wouldn't want you to go.'
Was that it? Was that supposed to be John's trump card? Did he really think that George was still so hung up that he was constantly veering on the edge of running back to Ringo, apologising for everything that wasn't his fault just so he could hold him in his arms again?
John was entirely right.
'George, are you okay?'
George shook his head, even though he knew John couldn't see him, and pressed the heel of his hand against his eye in an attempt to stem the flow of tears (anything could start him off these days, it seemed; the mention of Ringo's name, the semi-frequent attacks of memories).
'George?'
His voice was softer, lowered, most likely because even if he couldn't see George, he could still hear the weak, choked noises of someone trying not to cry.
'I'm sorry.'
'No - it's - ' George gulped, rubbing at his sore eyes. '- it's okay.'
'It's not, though, is it?'
There was a simple, gentle directness to John's tone, the kind of directness you use to nudge someone towards something they knew anyway.
'What do you think, John?'
'Ritchie, come to bed.'
Ringo looked up from the floor and at Mo. He could taste blood on his lip.
'In a minute.'
'You're just sitting there, Ritchie.'
''M thinking.'
Mo sighed, pulling the sheets up over her knees. 'C'mon, we've got to get up early tomorrow.'
'Yeah, I know ...' He glanced at the clock on the wall.
'I'm going for a walk.'
'Ritchie!' She made an exasperated noise, seizing the alarm clock by the bed.
'God's sake, it's eleven o'clock. It's pitch dark outside.'
'So, no-one'll bother me. I won't be long - '
'What d'you want to go for a walk for, then?'
'Just - ' He gestured aimlessly as he stood up. 'I dunno. Just wanna think about things.'
Mo opened her mouth, but then shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose.
'Fine - fine. You do what you want.'
Ringo smiled weakly, picking up his coat from the back of the chair. 'Be back soon.'
It was so cold outside that Ringo's face felt near-painfully numb, but somehow he didn't mind. The darkness helped too, enveloping everything around him so he didn't have to know where he was. At times like this, it sometimes helped to get a little lost.
For a while he thought about nothing at all; everything there was to think about right now was too painful, too sad. As he rounded a corner, though, thoughts of George crept in, as they always inevitably did.
He wondered what George was doing, right now. Perhaps he was asleep already - no, he wouldn't be, not this early. When George was upset, he didn't sleep properly, didn't eat properly, hardly even spoke. Ringo saw signs of all of this when he looked at George now; the grey circles under his eyes, the cheekbones hollow instead of defined, the weak tremble in his voice.
And it was funny, because Ringo knew how to stop George hurting - he had done it enough times before, stayed up enough late nights holding his hand, kissing the side of his face, whispering in his ear. It was always him that George turned to, the rare times he had been really, truly sad.
Who did George turn to now? Now that it was all Ringo's fault, now that Ringo had let him down - who (and it felt selfish to even think so) would ever care about him as much as Ringo did?
Maybe George would find someone else - maybe, in a year's time, he would be the one getting married. Less than a year's time, even.
Ringo despised himself.
Perhaps - the wind was really starting to blow now, slicing past his face and stinging his eyes - perhaps he could go back now, and perhaps Mo would still be awake, and perhaps she'd listen as he confessed everything, about George, about exactly why he couldn't marry her tomorrow; and perhaps she wouldn't mind being left alone, eighteen, pregnant, and hounded by press that would make everything her fault.
Ringo's eyes were watering now, possibly from the wind, or possibly not. He pulled his coat collar higher, so high that it hid most of his face, and when he came home, Mo had long been asleep.
The crimson-carpeted hallway of the registry office was crowded with various gaggles of well-dressed people, all chatting, all smiling, some bouncing with excitement. The only exceptions to the mass of pre-wedding fervour were two suited young men, stood stiffly by the fireplace with distracted looks on their faces. Eventually, one turned, tapping the other on the shoulder.
'George, are you sure you're okay?'
George blinked a couple of times before he answered.
'Yes, I'm fine.'
John frowned, but said no more, looking down at the floor. With a small sigh, George straightened his tie, watching his reflection in an opposite window.
'Would you like to come through?'
George nearly jumped; the registrar had just appeared from the door beside him, a tall, middle-aged woman who peered over the top of her glasses.
The excited noise in the room rose, and people began filing towards the door. John gave a wan smile, patting George's shoulder.
'Come on.'
He led George through the door into another, more polished room, and they sat towards the back. George leant forwards, resting his head on his hands, and hummed an indistinct melody under his breath.
Again there was a surge of noise, and he sat up, letting out an inaudible groan. He glanced at John, whose face was set in an impassive mask.
Ringo was looking incredibly handsome, hair brushed and suit pressed, if a little tired. He didn't look at George, nor Mo, nor any of the faces in the room, but instead stared fixedly ahead, clinging limply to Mo's hand and wearing a shadow of a smile. George blinked again, and forced his attention towards Maureen instead.
She had always been strikingly pretty, dark-haired with serious eyes and small, delicate lips. She was small all over, in fact, a doll-like figure, tiny even next to Ringo. The fact that Ringo was the taller of the two made George feel vaguely, irrationally uncomfortable; to him Ringo had always been small, small enough to hold and surprise with cuddles, small enough so that he had to stand on tiptoes to kiss George properly.
He was always thinking of things like this, little differences between then and now - and there were so many little differences - that only ever upset him.
The only point during the ceremony when George had really felt as if he might cry was when the registrar had put the wedding ring on Ringo's finger, the gold band placed right next to George's delicate silver one. Chirstmas seemed so long ago now, and his own ring, which he had already suspected to be a size too small, had made an uncomfortable ridge on his finger.
In any case, he had braved off that particular threat of tears, perhaps because the room had been so silent; now, however, people were moving around, chatting loudly and crowding around the happy new couple. Ringo was presently on the opposite side of the room, engaged with some plump, pastel in-laws. Briefly, and probably incidentally, he looked up, and it just so happened that his eye, which was blue, and still the same, caught George's in that moment.
A moment was more than enough.
'George - ?'
There was a helpfully-placed bench just outside, which George sat on, or rather fell onto - he couldn't see very well, his eyes were clouding over. It was Ringo who had called his name just then; maybe those were Ringo's footsteps, and he was coming to sit next to George, and hold his hand, and George wouldn't know how to feel.
'George?'
Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a sliver of John sat beside him.
'If you say "I told you so", I'll fucking slap you.'
John gave a weak smile, offering George a rather fluffy tissue. He didn't take it.
'He does worry about you, George. All the time.'
George said nothing, staring at his hands.
'He phoned me up the other night. 'Course, I told him to fuck off - '
One thing he had never really thought about was that ring, which he still wore now, without knowing why. If this was all some daft film, he would've cast it dramatically into the gutter by now.
' - but he was in a huge state. I s'pose you've unplugged your phone?'
'Mm.'
'Yeah, well, he said he'd been calling and calling, saying that he needed to talk to you and he wanted to say sorry - and you know, I wasn't taking any of it - '
He wondered if this was supposed to be making him feel better.
' - he stopped making sense after a while.'
'Was that when you told him to fuck off?'
His own voice sounded shaky, weak, and he tried to ignore it.
'Yes, or thereabouts.'
For a few long seconds, George became engrossed in the ground, wishing he could believe John - no, wishing that what he was saying didn't hurt him more.
'I don't s'pose I'm making you feel any better.'
'You read my mind, Johnny boy.'
There was silence for a few minutes, aside from the never-abating noise from inside.
'George, is there - ' John paused, taking several deep breaths, humming as he exhaled.
' - is there anything - anything I can say to make you feel better? 'Cause - it's not easy for any of us, George, and I know it's ten times worse for you, but I want to get out of this, I want to - '
'I'm sorry.'
'No - no, don't be.' He sighed quietly, looking indescribably tired.
George thought of saying something, but he would only get carried away, only upset himself.
The silence went on.