Sink Or Swim Chp. 5/?
“Me fuckin’ ‘ead ‘urts, Rings, I don’t know what the fuck’s goin’ on anymore,” that was all John had said when he had walked into Ringo’s room three day’s later after the incident had happened. With only two day’s left in their Miami vacation, John was finding it especially hard to cope with the fact that Paul hasn’t nearly spoken to him since the kiss. The following morning after the kiss, Paul’s fever has broke along with any semblance of ailment, yet he was quiet, reserved, and kept silently to the window. Watching the universe from his bedroom window, and failing to meet John’s eyes whenever he did move pass him.
It drove John mad.
The days after, Paul hadn’t even slept in the same room, spending his nights at God-knows-where, sleeping with God-knows-who, and thinking God-knows-what. The only acknowledgment he’d give John was when he left the room because he had acknowledged his presence in the first place. And John grew bitter, very bitter.
He had watched three suns rise and two moons set before he had to get it off his chest. And so the lad found refuge in Ringo and George’s room, daring to seek the advice of his slightly older and far more mature friend.
Ringo tapped the cigarette over the glass ashtray before he set it unto the indented margin, and blew the smoke through his dry lips slowly. Sitting up more comfortably, Ringo’s ocean-blue eyes looked to John’s honeyed ones with wave of sympathy, waiting patiently for John to explain his case.
God, this was why John had loved Ringo’s company so much. Ringo was always ready for a chat.
“Shit’s a whirlpool, suckin’ every fuckin’ thing from me, Ritch. I don’t know why I fuckin’ told anything to that shit!”
John was livid, but beneath that, Ringo could see the hurt that was prominent within John. And Ringo perfectly understood. He saw it unfold before him from the start, ever observant he was within those three days. He watched the uncomfortable tension between those two, he very nearly felt it. It was suffocating him, and then he’d watch McCartney stand and politely excuse himself only to come back unbelievably drunk late in the night to share a bed with George.
But John had told Ringo he wasn’t going to tell Paul how he felt, Ringo wasn’t very keen on the idea either, but then John had. John had kissed Paul, and he had witnessed it from the boardwalk that night. He had sighed and returned to his hotel room fifteen minutes after, to then find Paul kissing John- and of course the mess later.
And when John came to Ringo’s room that night to repent, all Ringo could do was shake his head and tell John to be strong. But here John was again, breaking like a dam on the verge of an aquatic apocalypse. And so Ringo had to improvise, while very sure of John’s disposition and very unsure of Paul’s.
Ringo couldn’t say he was angry with Paul, especially since he very much did understand, but a part of him knew Paul was being selfish for leaving John like this. If there was anyone who could break John yet, it was that McCartney kid.
Ringo sighed, took a swish of whiskey and stood.
“John, either talk to Paul, or wait for it to pass, either way regretfully I’m not sure you’re gonna get the answer yer lookin’ for.”
John could appreciate the honesty but he didn’t want to hear that.
“Nice to see ye so optimistic. Really warm’s me ‘eart and sh--”
Then Ringo hugged him.
And John hugged him back, sighing a shaky breath.
“I wanna know what Macca’s thinkin’ but I can’t ask ‘em.”
“I’ll talk to ‘em.”
“Ta Ritch, a lot.”
And so that’s how Richard Starkey found himself eyeing Paul, this night, nervously from the table sitting in his lonesome, drinking a beer. He had looked like utter shit, in every way physically possible. Not really, but you could read that he felt that way when you looked in his eyes, and Ringo was good at reading his mate’s eyes.
Ringo swirled his drink in his glass as he stood, walking cool and collectedly toward the questionably sober McCartney.
“Yer not gonna get any girls lookin’ like that, unless yer pullin’ the old ‘I’m-pathetic-talk-to-me’ bit,” Ringo joked but his mate didn’t respond much. Instead, Paul laid his left arm vertically unto the bar and laid his head on the table with a loud groan.
“Not try…ing,” Paul barely stated, a glossy hazel eye looking through his black tresses toward the very sober and alert Ringo. Ringo sighed and moved in toward Paul’s ear.
“Let’s catch a smoke, lad,” and with that Ringo grasped Paul’s forearm, very much how a mother would a disobedient child, and dragged him outside to a vacant alley. Ringo dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a nearly empty packet of smokes. Paul outstretched his long fingers, procuring a smoke from his lad and having it lit soon after.
And seeing Paul so miserable, he reached an epiphany.
Then as the hazy smoke drifted into the late night air, Ringo cut to the chase.
“It won’t do ye a bit of good, ignoring him.”
“Come again?” Paul looked to Ringo, a distorted face through the smoke seeping from their lips. Ringo rolled his eyes.
“Fuck Paul, I know. I’ve known before ye knew anything.”
“Cor… I… I’m so fucked up. You know? John liking me and all that stuff, make’s me hurt.”
“Hurt?”
“Yea, everywhere… He’s me best mate, I didn’t mean to kiss him, I think… I think I felt sorry--”
“Stop. Stop and listen. John doesn’t want to mess up things between ye two. Shit, he didn’t even want to tell you, he wanted things to be the same. But it’s not his fault,” Ringo took a long drag from his cigarette before smoldering the rest of it beneath his boot. “Christ Paul, ya know how John is. Puts a lot of trust in us mates, can’t stand to lose another one. Another mate. When he care’s he really cares.”
“But I’m not sure I feel that way--”
“Then be upfront Paul. Kissin’ and runnin’, it’s all bullocks, not fair to anyone if ye ask me. Mixed messages, but ye know what I think?”
Paul looked up to Ringo, reluctantly but he had a large respect for Ringo and owed him one to meet him eye-to-eye.
“No, Ringo, what do you think?”
“I think yer in love with ‘im. I think yer being a right bastard, ignoring him. Yer actin’ just like someone who’s afraid to show their feelings. It’s been there for years too, the way ye two sang to each other on stage, always needin’ each others approval, light touches only between ye two. Shit looks like close mates from afar, but I think within the weeks I saw a change in your eyes. Even if ye think it’s not there, man, somethin’ is there. I saw that kiss, hell, you were frustrated but that wasn’t pity Paul.”
And Paul was wide-eyed.
Then a tear came down his chin, dripping to his foot.
“Rings… I…”
“I’m not tryin’ to be some advocate, not tryin’ to push ye into it, just sayin’, that’s what I see.”
“You’re… right, Ringo…” Paul paused and formulated several hand gestures, “I know I have somethin’ for him….” Utterly embarrassed, Paul’s fleshy cheeks turned a deep shaded red. Then a few moments later, he confessed ,“I’m fucking afraid! Daft! I know, it’s only John, but it’s only John! Christ, I don’t want to--”
Ringo let out a guffaw, bent over with his hands on his knees as his laugh echoed throughout the alleyway. Paul was absolutely bewildered, however Paul nervously smiled.
“Ye know what John wanted?” John was going to kill Ringo for this. “He wanted me to talk to you ‘cause ‘e didn’t know how, innit funny?”
Paul let out a nervous laugh, wiping his eyes.
“Yeah? Could you um…”
Then Ringo’s face drained of all color, as he stood now erect, “no,” he deadpanned. He deserved a little more respect than this.
“Please?” Paul beseeched, voice weak- absolutely pitiful.
“Cor, Paul, what am I, a messenger?” What the fuck kind of best mates are they if they can’t even speak to each other? Ringo thought.
“Ringo, please, I’ve got too much pride!”
Ringo rolled his eyes, forever hating ever getting involved.
“Fine.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I love you,” and with that Ringo received a very tight yet brief hug before Paul left the alley.
I’m the drummer, they rhythm to the music, the pace-setter, supporter of the music, guess it’s only natural for me to do this for them right? Ringo smiled before too turning to leave the alley.
It drove John mad.
The days after, Paul hadn’t even slept in the same room, spending his nights at God-knows-where, sleeping with God-knows-who, and thinking God-knows-what. The only acknowledgment he’d give John was when he left the room because he had acknowledged his presence in the first place. And John grew bitter, very bitter.
He had watched three suns rise and two moons set before he had to get it off his chest. And so the lad found refuge in Ringo and George’s room, daring to seek the advice of his slightly older and far more mature friend.
Ringo tapped the cigarette over the glass ashtray before he set it unto the indented margin, and blew the smoke through his dry lips slowly. Sitting up more comfortably, Ringo’s ocean-blue eyes looked to John’s honeyed ones with wave of sympathy, waiting patiently for John to explain his case.
God, this was why John had loved Ringo’s company so much. Ringo was always ready for a chat.
“Shit’s a whirlpool, suckin’ every fuckin’ thing from me, Ritch. I don’t know why I fuckin’ told anything to that shit!”
John was livid, but beneath that, Ringo could see the hurt that was prominent within John. And Ringo perfectly understood. He saw it unfold before him from the start, ever observant he was within those three days. He watched the uncomfortable tension between those two, he very nearly felt it. It was suffocating him, and then he’d watch McCartney stand and politely excuse himself only to come back unbelievably drunk late in the night to share a bed with George.
But John had told Ringo he wasn’t going to tell Paul how he felt, Ringo wasn’t very keen on the idea either, but then John had. John had kissed Paul, and he had witnessed it from the boardwalk that night. He had sighed and returned to his hotel room fifteen minutes after, to then find Paul kissing John- and of course the mess later.
And when John came to Ringo’s room that night to repent, all Ringo could do was shake his head and tell John to be strong. But here John was again, breaking like a dam on the verge of an aquatic apocalypse. And so Ringo had to improvise, while very sure of John’s disposition and very unsure of Paul’s.
Ringo couldn’t say he was angry with Paul, especially since he very much did understand, but a part of him knew Paul was being selfish for leaving John like this. If there was anyone who could break John yet, it was that McCartney kid.
Ringo sighed, took a swish of whiskey and stood.
“John, either talk to Paul, or wait for it to pass, either way regretfully I’m not sure you’re gonna get the answer yer lookin’ for.”
John could appreciate the honesty but he didn’t want to hear that.
“Nice to see ye so optimistic. Really warm’s me ‘eart and sh--”
Then Ringo hugged him.
And John hugged him back, sighing a shaky breath.
“I wanna know what Macca’s thinkin’ but I can’t ask ‘em.”
“I’ll talk to ‘em.”
“Ta Ritch, a lot.”
And so that’s how Richard Starkey found himself eyeing Paul, this night, nervously from the table sitting in his lonesome, drinking a beer. He had looked like utter shit, in every way physically possible. Not really, but you could read that he felt that way when you looked in his eyes, and Ringo was good at reading his mate’s eyes.
Ringo swirled his drink in his glass as he stood, walking cool and collectedly toward the questionably sober McCartney.
“Yer not gonna get any girls lookin’ like that, unless yer pullin’ the old ‘I’m-pathetic-talk-to-me’ bit,” Ringo joked but his mate didn’t respond much. Instead, Paul laid his left arm vertically unto the bar and laid his head on the table with a loud groan.
“Not try…ing,” Paul barely stated, a glossy hazel eye looking through his black tresses toward the very sober and alert Ringo. Ringo sighed and moved in toward Paul’s ear.
“Let’s catch a smoke, lad,” and with that Ringo grasped Paul’s forearm, very much how a mother would a disobedient child, and dragged him outside to a vacant alley. Ringo dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a nearly empty packet of smokes. Paul outstretched his long fingers, procuring a smoke from his lad and having it lit soon after.
And seeing Paul so miserable, he reached an epiphany.
Then as the hazy smoke drifted into the late night air, Ringo cut to the chase.
“It won’t do ye a bit of good, ignoring him.”
“Come again?” Paul looked to Ringo, a distorted face through the smoke seeping from their lips. Ringo rolled his eyes.
“Fuck Paul, I know. I’ve known before ye knew anything.”
“Cor… I… I’m so fucked up. You know? John liking me and all that stuff, make’s me hurt.”
“Hurt?”
“Yea, everywhere… He’s me best mate, I didn’t mean to kiss him, I think… I think I felt sorry--”
“Stop. Stop and listen. John doesn’t want to mess up things between ye two. Shit, he didn’t even want to tell you, he wanted things to be the same. But it’s not his fault,” Ringo took a long drag from his cigarette before smoldering the rest of it beneath his boot. “Christ Paul, ya know how John is. Puts a lot of trust in us mates, can’t stand to lose another one. Another mate. When he care’s he really cares.”
“But I’m not sure I feel that way--”
“Then be upfront Paul. Kissin’ and runnin’, it’s all bullocks, not fair to anyone if ye ask me. Mixed messages, but ye know what I think?”
Paul looked up to Ringo, reluctantly but he had a large respect for Ringo and owed him one to meet him eye-to-eye.
“No, Ringo, what do you think?”
“I think yer in love with ‘im. I think yer being a right bastard, ignoring him. Yer actin’ just like someone who’s afraid to show their feelings. It’s been there for years too, the way ye two sang to each other on stage, always needin’ each others approval, light touches only between ye two. Shit looks like close mates from afar, but I think within the weeks I saw a change in your eyes. Even if ye think it’s not there, man, somethin’ is there. I saw that kiss, hell, you were frustrated but that wasn’t pity Paul.”
And Paul was wide-eyed.
Then a tear came down his chin, dripping to his foot.
“Rings… I…”
“I’m not tryin’ to be some advocate, not tryin’ to push ye into it, just sayin’, that’s what I see.”
“You’re… right, Ringo…” Paul paused and formulated several hand gestures, “I know I have somethin’ for him….” Utterly embarrassed, Paul’s fleshy cheeks turned a deep shaded red. Then a few moments later, he confessed ,“I’m fucking afraid! Daft! I know, it’s only John, but it’s only John! Christ, I don’t want to--”
Ringo let out a guffaw, bent over with his hands on his knees as his laugh echoed throughout the alleyway. Paul was absolutely bewildered, however Paul nervously smiled.
“Ye know what John wanted?” John was going to kill Ringo for this. “He wanted me to talk to you ‘cause ‘e didn’t know how, innit funny?”
Paul let out a nervous laugh, wiping his eyes.
“Yeah? Could you um…”
Then Ringo’s face drained of all color, as he stood now erect, “no,” he deadpanned. He deserved a little more respect than this.
“Please?” Paul beseeched, voice weak- absolutely pitiful.
“Cor, Paul, what am I, a messenger?” What the fuck kind of best mates are they if they can’t even speak to each other? Ringo thought.
“Ringo, please, I’ve got too much pride!”
Ringo rolled his eyes, forever hating ever getting involved.
“Fine.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I love you,” and with that Ringo received a very tight yet brief hug before Paul left the alley.
I’m the drummer, they rhythm to the music, the pace-setter, supporter of the music, guess it’s only natural for me to do this for them right? Ringo smiled before too turning to leave the alley.