“Has anyone seen my belt?”
“I think it’s on the floor in the bathroom.”
George stood by the end of his bed rubbing his temples (or the end of his and Ringo’s bed, since the hotel messed up and overbooked, all four of them were crammed into a single two-bed room).
“Paul, did ye take my ciggies again?”
“No, this is my pack.”
“Well then, where are mine?”
“How am I ‘sposed to know?”
He loved his bandmates; he really did. But, at moments like this, where he hadn’t had a moment to himself in weeks, with constant voices talking, arguing, fans screaming, press conferences, performances, and people touching him, he could just about strangle them all.
“I can’t find mine. Could I bum one off ye?”
“Maybe ye wouldn’t be loosing yer shit all the time if ye weren’t such a slob!”
He felt his eye twitch as John and Paul’s argument grew in volume. Luckily, George was saved by the bell, or in this case, Brian letting himself into their room to tell them they were late and the car was waiting for them. With only marginal complaining, he managed to wrangle everyone out of the room, the hotel, and into their car, like a mother taking her reluctant children to school.
“Come on, boys, stop your arguing. You’re gonna need your energy for this show.” Brian smiled, holding the car door open while the four of them clambered inside. “It’s your biggest sold-out show yet.”
Paul leaned forward in his seat to look at Brian outside the car, shock radiating from his face. “Sold out? ye’re kidding?!”
“Dead serious.”
“But that venue is huge?”
“Yeah, and we almost had to upgrade to a bigger one.” Brian shut the door once George got into his seat, talking through the open window. “That’s enough chatter for now, I wasn’t kidding about you boys being late. I’ll meet you there.”
With a soft tap to the roof, the car was off. Every acceleration, deceleration, turn, and bump caused John’s arm and leg to press against him. The incessant touch made the hairs on his arms stand on end and sent painful static waves tingling under his skin. George tried to press himself into the door to his left, but there was no escape from the constant friction. He wanted nothing more than to shove John away, force him to give a reasonable amount of personal space. It was all he could do to dig his fingernails into the palms of his hands and take slow, deep breaths.
The car crawled to a stop behind the venue. Despite the fact that they were on the opposite side of the building from where the fans were let in, the crowd of girls that swarmed the car was so dense that George wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to get out. In fact, from the looks of things, it was more likely that the windows were to be shattered and the four of them dragged out of the vehicle by their rabid fans.
Eventually, the police were able to get the crowd back enough for them to make the mad dash inside the venue. Even once they were safely inside, the screams still rattled around the inside of George’s skull. Brian was quick to meet them and drag them off to their dressing room, all while complaining about being behind schedule. George was struggling to pay attention to his rapid words. The lights were too bright, the air was too cold, the presence of the others too close, and he could still hear those screams. Every little thing was a white-hot iron directly to his nervous system.
George was the first in the dressing room, quickly shoving past the others to secure himself into his little corner of the room. There was something oddly comforting about being tucked away into a small nook like that, but not comforting enough to clear the fire from his veins. He clenched his fists in an attempt to keep them from trembling, but it was a pathetic attempt. George was pissed off, immeasurably irritated, pure rage radiated from him in waves. He wasn’t sure why he was angry; he didn’t have much reason to be.
Because he doesn’t get a room to himself? They share their hotel rooms far more often than they get one to themselves.
Because John and Paul won’t shut the fuck up? Just because he’s the quiet Beatle doesn’t mean everyone else can’t talk.
Because people keep touching him? It’s all been minor and accidental.
Because the fans are excited to see them? The brightness of the lights? The fact that the AC is on? None of it is a reasonable cause for anger. It’s irrational. So why is he overflowing with rage?
“Hazza…ye okay, man?” John kept a considerable distance (which George was immensely grateful for). His eyebrow was raised in concern, and his lips pressed into a tight frown.
“If one more person touches me…I’m gonna lose it.” His voice was low and sharp enough to cut. “I don’t know if I’ll start crying or swinging, maybe both.”
John took that as warning enough and stepped even further back, nodding in acknowledgement. George’s hand shook as he dug through his bag for his stage clothes. Unfortunately, Ringo and Paul had gotten caught up talking to Brian in the hallway and missed that whole interaction. The two waltzed in through the door, laughing loudly. The sudden noise caused George to jump and tears to prick the corners of his eyes. Even more so, unfortunately, Paul noticed how he flinched, and apparently, the deadly scowl on his face wasn’t enough to keep the bassist at bay.
“Ye good, Geo?”
God, people really needed to stop asking him that.
He ignored the question and tried to keep digging through his bag. Multiple sets of eyes were on him, burning his skin as though they were branding him.
“George?” He looked up at hearing Paul say his name, considerably closer than he had previously been. His eyes were wide as Paul reached to place a hand on his shoulder, a movement he was quick to dodge.
“Don’t touch me.” If George’s voice had been sharp with John, it was near lethal with Paul. It was getting harder and harder for him to contain the anger bubbling up inside him.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help.” Paul was nothing but a picture of concern. His hand went out to George, this time aiming for his forearm.
George smacked the hand away with more force than he meant to. “I said don’t fucking touch me!”
The threatening prick of tears now were fat drops welling up, blurring his vision. George was vaguely aware of Paul’s voice continuing in worry and John pulling Paul away from him while muttering something. There was a thunderous roar in his ears, and his mind was fuzzy. A sharp spike of fear stabbed through his stomach, pure, unadultered panic. George stormed off toward the nearest bathroom as quickly as he could. As he was walking away, Paul’s voice echoed, trying to figure out what it was that he did wrong.
He held his breath until he was safely locked inside the bathroom, otherwise, he’d surely break down in front of everyone. George slid his back down the wall until he fell to the floor with a thud. Now that he was without an audience, he was crying freely. Loud, ugly, rasping sobs that shook his whole body. Soon, he was fully hyperventilating. His body screaming of a nonexistent lack of oxygen. Short, rapid breaths did nothing to appease his nervous system; only made his mind rush and the corners of his vision black out. George hugged his knees to his chest and tried without avail to steady his breathing when a soft rap at the door echoed through the bathroom.
George didn’t respond, he couldn’t. Even if his mind had been capable of formulating a response, his tongue was far beyond useless at this point. The knock came again, slightly sharper this time and accompanied by a deep voice. “Geo? It’s Ritchie. Can I come in?”
It took George a moment to recognize the sound, another to crawl to the door, and even longer to unlock it with his pathetically trembling fingers, but he managed. The second the lock clicked, Ringo slipped inside the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and redid the lock all in one fluid motion. George resumed his curled-up position against the wall, and Ringo sat beside him softly. His movements were slow, and he made sure there was plenty of space between the two of them, as if George were a frightened animal Ringo were trying to keep from running back into the woods.
Ringo tried to keep his face gentle but not too worried. He didn’t want to upset George by being visibly concerned. It was, however, difficult to keep his frown at bay when he realized that if George’s breathing didn’t slow soon, he was sure to faint.
“Is it okay if I touch ye, Geo?”
He was worried that George would snap at him, a worry that was immediately chased away as George collapsed his full body weight onto his side. Ringo gently wrapped his arms around the yenger man and soothingly ran his fingers through soft brunette locks.
George could feel Ringo’s chest rumble as he spoke, trying to guide him through breathing exercises, but the exact words the drummer said fell on deaf ears. George’s fingertips were numb, his entire body was tingling, his eyes were as useless as his mouth, and his brain was too foggy to process the words he was hearing. Ringo cursed internally as he watched George get worse by the second. This wasn’t the first time he had helped the other calm down, but it was the worst.
Ringo searched his mind, trying to remember different exercises to bring George back, but he was too far gone; nothing was working. George’s violent trembling was causing Ringo to panic as well. What if he couldn’t help him calm down? What would happen when George faints from hyperoxia? He’s not sure why this is the solution his panic-stricken brain came up with, but with everything else failing, what else could he do? George needed to stop hyperventilating and breathe through his nose.
So Ringo shifted their positions so he was facing George directly, cradling his face in one hand while he took the other and plunged two fingers into George’s gasping mouth. For a moment, he tried to keep breathing around the intrusion in his mouth, but once his tongue brushed across calloused skin, his eyes fluttered, his mouth clamped shut, and he started to lightly suck. Ringo softly brushed his thumb across George’s cheek with the hand cradling George’s face, encouraging him to breathe through his nose, and through a dumb stroke of luck (or perhaps divine intervention), George’s breathing began to return to normal.
Once it was clear that George was free from the clutches of his anxiety attack, Ringo removed his fingers. The guitarist whined softly, so softly, in fact, that Ringo wasn’t sure that he actually heard it. He continued to run his thumb across George’s cheek while he dried his other hand on his jeans, and once his hand was free of saliva, he pulled George into a hug. The guitarist nuzzled his face into the crook of Ringo’s neck. They sat like that for a moment before George mumbled something, the words muffled by skin.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand ye. Repeat that?” Ringo was running his hand through George’s hair as he spoke.
George turned his head so he could speak clearly, without interrupting the hand in his hair. “What was that with yer fingers?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” A faint blush danced across Ringo’s face. “I just- I’ve never seen ye get so bad. It really scared me, y’know? I panicked.”
“Ye panicked, and yer first thought was to stick yer fingers in my mouth?” George laughed lightly.
“I mean, it worked, didn’t it?” George didn’t have to be looking at Ringo to see the bright grin on his face.
George opened his mouth to respond, but his words died on his lips. The light blush dusted across his cheeks grew into a full flush spreading to his ears. His eyes flickered to Ringo’s hand for just a second.
“I ain’t a psychic; if ye want something, ye have to use yer big boy words.” The tone of his voice sent shivers down George’s spine. Ringo pulled away so he could better see George. “Aww, look at ye, blushing so sweetly. Yer redder than a tomato.”
“Do ye think ye could…” George couldn’t meet Ringo’s eyes as he spoke.
“Go on…”
George took a deep breath, eyes trained on the floor, and voice barely audible, “Do ye think ye could do it again?”
“Stick my fingers in yer mouth ye mean?” A teasing smirk spread across full lips. George only nodded in affirmation, he didn’t trust his voice.
Ringo smiled softly. “Of course, anythin’ ye want.”
When George had Ringo’s fingers in his mouth last time he had been so focused on calming his breathing that he didn’t have a chance to apprieciate the feeling, so when Ringo dragged his thumb across George’s lips before returning his fingers to their rightful place, George made sure to revel in the feeling. Ringo’s fingers were thicker than his, and whereas George had calluses on the tips of his fingers from his guitar, Ringo’s hands were evenly calloused from clutching his drumsticks. George sighed in relief and closed his eyes while he swirled his tongue around the fingers in his mouth.
The way George wasted no time sucking on his fingers had Ringo gasping softly in surprise. He was entranced watching George’s cheeks hollow and his eyelashes flutter. Ringo felt his heart swell.
“Such a sweet thing ye are. Yer doing so well.”
The little whimpers George made at those words engrained themselves in Ringo’s heart. It was clear that George enjoyed having something in his mouth, but Ringo didn’t realize just how much George enjoyed it until George rolled his hips forward. Before he could get out any teasing remarks, however, a sharp knock rang from the door, startling the two of them apart.
“Geo? Ye in there?” Paul’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry about earlier. I should’ve listened to ye when ye asked to not be touched.”
When neither George nor Ringo responded, Paul continued. “Are ye doing better now?”
George lightly cleared his throat before speaking. “Yeah, I’m a lot better now, and I really appricate yer apology.”
“I’m glad.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Also, we’re on in ten, so ye should probably hurry and get ready. Brian’s got his panties all in a bunch already ‘cause we were late and all.”
“All right, I’ll be out in a sec.”
George and Ringo quickly stood up. George’s legs were still slightly wobbly, but Ringo helped steady him. They resituated their clothes, and George splashed some cold water on his face to help the swelling around his eyes (and the blush on his cheeks), but before Ringo unlocked the door, he turned to face George.
“Ye might wanna try fixing yer trousers again.”
“What?” Confusion spread across George’s face until Ringo pointed at the erection he tried (and failed) to tuck away.
Ringo leaned in toward George’s face with a teasing grin before softly whispering, “If ye like havin' somethin' in yer mouth that much, come find me after the show. I’ve got something that can keep ye busy.”
Then, just as quickly as he entered the bathroom, Ringo slipped out, leaving an incredibly flushed guitarist in his wake.