Paul McCartney rubbed his aching hands together in a fruitless attempt to make them stop aching. He stared longingly at his bass from where he sat in bed, and cursed his arthritis for crippling his hands that could once play music so beautifully. His eyes trailed over to the framed picture of him and his best mates, and a lump grew in his throat.
Those were the days. When he was just a young lad, that could hang out with his mates all day and play music for a living. There wasn't a day that had gone by after they all had broken up that he didn't wish for a time travel machine so he could go back.
"Hey Macca," a soft, farmilliar voice whispered behind him. Paul felt his heart stop, and he turned around quickly, fully expecting to see some crazy fan who had broken into his home. The man was leaning against his bedroom wall, arms crossed and head tilted up, taking on what Paul could only describe as a Teddy Boy stance. His auburn hair hung well past the normal length for boys in the old d
Those Blue Eyes of His
"John?" Ringo murmured, looking up from his book with sleepy blue eyes. John felt his pulse quicken, and he cursed himself silently.
"Yeah Rings?" he answered casually, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice from the adorable drummer.
"How are yeh and Cyn?" he asked, shoving his tattered book mark back into the book and setting it on the small table beside his bed. John and Ringo had to share a hotel room, the one with only one king sized bed.
"We're ok. I dunno about it anymore, but we're ok." he answered truthfully, as he scratched his stubbly chin. He would have to shave tommorow before work, because 'the fans' wouldn't like it if he grew a beard or cut his hair.
"That's....good? I think?" Ringo said, and John laughed at the expression on his face. God he was just so cute. He felt butterflies erupt in his belly, and he quickly stopped laughing. He wasn't queer for Ringo dammit. He wasn't.
"It's not at all Rings. I'm stuck with a bird I don't wanna be tied to." he sai