Fandom: Beatles Slash
Characters: Ringo/George, hints at possible John/Paul.
Prompt: #071- Sex
Word Count: 460
Rating: PG fluff.
Author's Notes: 1st person from Ringo’s POV. Erm... don’t get your hopes up based on the prompt, this is perfectly clean ;)
I can still remember that first night.
It was our first day in America. New York City, to be precise. We had been shot through with nerves on the plane, but then we arrived, and the reception was mind numbing. There were so many people, screaming our names, if they were screaming words at all. Mostly it was just noise.
It was exciting during the day. As night fell, it got a bit wearing. By two am, it was downright obnoxious. How could anyone sleep with such noise outside?
I lay awake, and I could tell from the way he was breathing that George wasn’t sleeping either. By the time a quarter till four rolled around, we were still both awake.
I heard a rustle across the room, a few quiet footsteps, and then suddenly George was climbing into my bed.
This wasn’t a surprise in any way. I’d gotten close to George since I’d joined the group; we often had to keep ourselves occupied during John and Paul’s marathon writing sessions. We talked about all sorts of things, and during one conversation, George had mentioned how comforting it had felt to sleep tangled with John, Paul and Pete during their early days in Hamburg. So it didn’t shock me, finding George climbing into my bed on such a nerve-wracking night.
He fell asleep with his head on my chest, and I fell asleep by focusing on his breathing instead of the constant screams outside.
It was a regular occurrence after that. All through that tour, and every one after that.
But I still couldn’t fall asleep at a reasonable hour, and my mind would often wander off without me.
That’s what it was doing tonight. I lay with one arm around George, and wondered idly if there was a similarly empty bed in the next room over. I wondered what was going on in the mind of the man next to me, arms comfortable around my waist, head curled against my shoulder.
I appreciated the warmth we shared, and I contemplated our relationship.
Though I can’t speak for George, I know that what we have is something special. Something more than just friendship. If it weren’t for the stigma attached, we might even consider ourselves ‘boyfriends’. We hugged, we cuddled, and we even kissed and held hands sometimes. We laughed together on good days, and we sometimes cried together on the worst days. And we always, always slept in the same bed. We rationalised this to ourselves with a simple mantra. ‘No sex.’
In the end, it was okay that we were both men, that we both had girlfriends back in London. It was okay that we loved each other, because we didn’t have sex.
We didn’t need it.
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