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1.
John and Paul had been roped into helping George and Ringo move into their first shared flat. John grumbled a tad but Paul gave him a stern look, meaning there would be consequences if he heard too much whining. So, John grits his teeth as he lifts another heavy chest. Who the hell transports their stuff in old vintage chests, anyway?!
One of them opens by accident. Alright, he might have helped it a bit. Don’t blame him, he was just curious, alright. It is full of old clothes, extraordinarily decorated with gold threads and furs. John picks up a cape… Who needs a cape now? Looking over his shoulder and not spotting anyone, he quickly puts it on.
It is heavy but feels nice and totally not moth-infested. John starts to think he actually looks good in the garment, which has to be at least a century old. How did it survive for that long in such good condition, and why did George have it in the first place? Because let’s be honest, there is no way it belongs to Ringo. It has to be some kind of weird kink of Ringo’s mysterious and kinda freaky boyfriend.
John is about to do a spin when Paul shows up from out of nowhere and definitely doesn’t scare him shitless. “I see you’re having fun without me.”
“No. I was just—”
But Paul only raises these perfectly plucked eyebrows at him, clearly not believing a word, “Come, have a look, I found something even better.”
Grabbing his wrist, he leads John inside the moving van.
There is only a little bit of light but with Paul’s phone flashlight they make do. He moves aside the protection screen to reveal an old painting.
“Look at this, doesn’t he look like…”
“George.”
They’re staring at an image that could be a carbon copy of their friend’s boyfriend. It’s eerie how similar they look, only the man is sporting a curled-up moustache and old clothing just like the ones he found earlier.
It has to be George right here on this canvas, which was lucky to not have crumbled during the move.
“Do you think he’s a cosplayer?” John whispers the last word.
“Have you seen him? He probably dresses up as the wackiest and most unknown characters ever.”
John rolls his eyes. “Yeah, totally.”
“What you got there, guys?” Ringo makes them jump, but neither of them will ever admit it, of course.
Paul is the first to get himself together. “Just this painting. Is this George?”
Ringo steps closer and takes a good look but only shakes his head. “Oh, that’s George’s great-great-great-grandfather, he told me about him.”
“There has to be some strong genes in the family.” John watches Ringo closely.
“I mean, I see the resemblance but that’s all,” Ringo spins on his heels, picks up a random box and exits the van, throwing it upon his back. “Nice coat, John!”
“It’s a cape!” He shouts behind him. “Do you think they dress up like this in the bedroom?”
“...they might.”
John shakes off the cape instantly, throwing it on the ground, too terrified to consider what could be on it.
2.
It is only fair that after the little housewarming party George and Ringo threw, they’re hanging out at John and Paul’s flat now. Paul planned to be slaving away in the kitchen for half a day but then he remembers that Ringo’s never really eaten any of the food he’s ever prepared.
Now that he thinks about it, neither does George. He never really saw him eat any food, except… he shakes his head as he finishes drowning the salad in a sauce which will make John eat at least a few pieces of vegetables.
Ringo has explained many times that he doesn’t mind coming with his own pre-made food but it still makes Paul feel guilty. And now with his boyfriend having some kind of digestive problem, they can’t even serve food to their guests. They really picked out each other in terms of food. Paul envies them for their lack of arguments: “What’s for dinner tonight?” “No, we can’t have chicken nuggets four days in a row!”
“Don’t worry too much or you will go grey prematurely,” John’s arms circle around Paul from behind.
“Oi, watch it!” Paul elbows him in the stomach.
“It’s just Ringo… and George, I guess…”
So what if George makes them slightly restless and his highly weird behaviour keeps them strangely on their toes? It’s not going to stop them from getting high and watching a silly movie together. Paul might be keeping his guard up the whole time but no one has to know that.
The couple soon show up with bottles of beer in their arms, at which John gives them a warm welcome. Paul takes Ringo’s meal and heats it up in the microwave. It looks sad but what can you really do with vegetarian, non-dairy, no gluten and barely any spices? This, apparently.
He serves the baked beans on a fancy plate. Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad, Paul tries very hard to convince himself. He joins the rest in the living room and places the plate in front of Ringo, whose face lights up as if he is seeing a Michelin star course. Paul swallows the laughter that builds up, feeling the stare of George burning into him.
Somewhere between bites, Paul can’t contain the question anymore and he lets it slip, bringing the whole table to a halt.
“So, what exactly are you having, George?”
“A shake.”
Paul cowers under his hard stare, but Ringo is more than happy to jump in with a proper explanation.
“It’s his special shake, has all the nutrients he needs. He goes out once a week and comes back with a supply of them until next time,” He leans in and continues in a lower voice, “I think it’s cute how he adds red dye for the fun of it.”
This is the first time they see George smile, his mouth curls up as he watches Ringo with a fond look.
The mood becomes a tad too saccharine for Paul. He escapes to the kitchen and brings out the salad, absolutely smothered in garlic dressing. It’s a bit too much for his personal taste but John adores it, so he lets it be.
Unexpectedly, George’s eyes water and become bloodshot red. He starts having a coughing fit while trying to stop his nose from running. This definitely doesn’t look good.
“Georgie?” Ringo is immediately by his side.
“Something…” He rasps out between violent coughs. “I’m allergic!”
Ringo doesn’t wait. He scoops up his boyfriend and carries him outside to the balcony for some fresh air while Paul scrambles to get the food off the table.
“What just happened?” John stares at them through the glass door as George tries to compose himself.
“I have no idea. Help me clean it up!” Paul says, heartbroken. His beautifully planned dinner is in shambles.
And he almost killed his guest.
They quickly put away the dishes, judging the fridge as a safe storage for now. Paul’s tears are wiped away by John with a kitchen towel. They snog only a little, which makes Paul forget for a moment about the fiasco and George coughing up his lungs outside.
As John starts washing the dishes, George’s humongous bottle stumps him. At the bottom, there is still a bit of strange, red liquid left. Something prompts him to give it a quick whiff, and he gags into the kitchen sink.
“What even is this stuff?!” John refuses to even look at the bottle. Paul tears it out of his hands and inhales. The rancid smell makes his head spin.
“John, I think… I think it’s blood.”
They gape at the bottle as if it holds all the answers. It doesn’t, they have to figure them out by themselves. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, I’m not, but… you agree with me that this guy— that George is drinking blood?”
Paul’s heart is hammering in his chest. He feels like he needs to sit down. Are they in some kind of TV crime show? Are they about to be murdered by their dear friend and his creepy boyfriend? No, this can’t be. Are they about to be murdered by just the creepy boyfriend? Will Ringo be fine?
Someone shakes him by his shoulders. It’s John.
“He’s a vampire, Paul. The garlic thing, the blood… he’s a bloody vampire!”
“No, this can’t be real…”
“Just think about it, really think,” John takes him by his arms into the living room and puts the bottle perfectly in the same spot as it has never been moved. Paul takes a quick peek at the couple outside, who are sharing a cigarette as if nothing happened.
George’s eyes shine strangely in the moonlight.
“He’s a vampire,” Paul whispers to himself. George stiffens and straightens his back like he had heard him but he never stops holding Ringo.
3.
The next few days, Paul hardly sleeps. He needs to warn Ringo about what George is. But…how the hell do you tell your mate that his boyfriend is a vampire? He rolls over in bed again, groaning as he flops against the pillow.
“If you’re gonna keep me up all night,” John gripes, “at least keep me in the loop and tell me what’s wrong?”
“ George,” Paul hisses. “George is wrong.”
“So then let’s fuckin’ tell Ringo about it.”
“But…how?” No way Ringo would believe them. They’d look like arsehole friends trying to split up a supposedly happy couple. “We need some really solid evidence.”
“Well, we better find it fast before George does something to hurt him,” John says.
Yep. Paul gets no sleep that night.
At the crack of dawn, Paul phones Ringo to invite him over. His heart sinks a bit when Ringo chimes in with, “Can George come?”
“Sure,” Paul says, hoping Ringo can’t hear him gritting his teeth.
Paul hangs up just as John crawls out of bed and joins him in the kitchen. “Wha’ was that all about?” John asks groggily.
“Ringo’s comin’ over…and so is George.”
John nearly passes out.
After Paul fans John back to full consciousness, someone’s already knocking on the door. John curls his hands into fists–just in case–as Paul very, very slowly drags the door open. When Ringo’s beaming smile flashes at him from the other side of the door, Paul’s never felt worse.
“Hello, mates!” Ringo says cheerily. “Thanks for having us over.”
“Of course,” Paul says, keeping his eyes locked on George as Ringo steps inside. But George stays frozen in place at the doorway. “Uhh…”
“Can I come in?” George asks, his eerie gaze fixed on Paul.
“S-sure. Come on in.”
“Look at him,” Ringo says, beaming again as George steps inside. “Always so polite.” He gets on tip-toes to smooch George right on the cheek. Paul and John share a terrified glance as the four of them head to the living room.
Paul and John aren’t the best conversationalists today, both being a bit preoccupied. Luckily, Ringo can chat enough for the whole group. Admittedly, Paul doesn’t follow much of what he’s saying, but it must be a joke because John cracks into laughter, along with George–
John quits laughing. Paul follows his gaze right to George’s mouth, and then John blurts, “Paul, can you help me in the kitchen?”
They launch up from their seats, dash out of the room, and once they’re out of sight, John is desperately shaking Paul’s shoulders. “Did you SEE that, Paulie??”
“Yes, I–”
“FANGS. He’s got fuckin’ fangs. How many people do you think he’s killed with those?”
“Stop shaking me, you arse,” Paul says, prying John’s hands off his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Must be a lot, with the size of that bloody bottle of his.”
Paul’s vision spins, and not just because John made him dizzy. “What do we do?”
“We tell Ringo. Now.”
“He won’t believe us.”
“Oh alright,” John says sarcastically, “then let’s just wait till he’s bloody killed and tell him then?!!”
“Everything alright in here?”
John and Paul jump as Ringo pokes his head into the kitchen.
“You’ve been in here a while. Thought you might want some help…are you alright? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“HAH.”
Paul slaps a hand over John’s mouth. “Actually, Ringo, we do want to talk to you for a moment.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, y’know,” Paul begins, no clue how to say this, “we just think…maybe…”
“Your boyfriend’s a vampire.”
Ringo blinks. He stares at John. And then he bursts into laughter.
“You–” Ringo gasps between guffaws, “you really had me worried there. Making me think something was wrong. Ahhh, great prank, lads. You had me going for a second.”
“He’s not kidding,” Paul says. “He’s really a vampire.”
Ringo erupts into laughter again. “This is a great pick-me-up,” he says, clapping them both on the shoulder. “I needed this.”
“ Ringo.” John says. “He’s got clothes that’re a century old.”
“It’s retro fashion!”
“He drinks blood.”
“That’s his special shake, remember? I already told you this. You gotta get him to the doctor, Paul. I think his memory’s going.”
“He has FANGS.”
Ringo’s smile falls. “Alright, now that’s over the line. He’s really self-conscious about his teeth. Don’t you dare make fun of him — he’s got the cutest teeth in the world and you better not tell him otherwise.”
John opens and closes his mouth a few times, and Paul is just as speechless. “But…but…vampire.”
Ringo glares at them, showing an intensity Paul has never seen from him before. “Knock. It. Off.”
Paul swallows. Suddenly George isn’t the only one he’s scared of.
This is going to be harder than he thought.
4.
John and Paul were trying to keep their mouths shut to avoid incurring Ringo’s wrath, but it grew harder and harder with each day. There were too many signs, and somehow Ringo saw none of them. They need more evidence, something that Ringo can’t explain away with innocent excuses.
Which is how they wind up back at George and Ringo’s flat, diving deep into the belly of the beast. They were going for a divide and conquer approach, with John excusing himself to the loo because of a “nasty case of diarrhoea” as an excuse to snoop around the place while Paul bombards George with questions. So far, Paul was coming up empty.
“Where’d you get that cape from?”
“Passed down from my great-great-great-grandfather.”
“Did you sleep well last night?”
“Does anyone really sleep well these days?”
“I’m a bit hungry, got any suggestions for a snack? What’s your favourite?”
“Take whatever you’d like from the kitchen. No need to ask me.”
So Paul grumbles off to the kitchen, where he finds John already rummaging through the fridge. “Find anything?” John asks.
“No. You?”
John points to the fridge. “Just more of his ‘shakes.’”
Paul shivers as he looks at the seven bottles of blood, all lined up in a terrifyingly tidy row. “Lovely.”
When they return to the living room, George is nowhere to be found. “He’s going out to the garden,” Ringo explains.
“What garden?” John asks. “You’re in a flat.”
“There’s a little community garden for the whole building, and Georgie volunteered to help take care of it. He’s so thoughtful, isn’t he?”
“Riiiight,” John says.
A minute later, George emerges from the bedroom–and he’s bundled up like he’s ready for a winter storm.
“See you later, love,” Ringo calls after him, and George grins at him–fangs and all–as he steps outside.
“...he does know it’s the middle of summer, doesn’t he?” Paul asks.
“He sunburns easily,” Ringo says.
“Then buy him sunscreen!”
“Not strong enough. He burns bad. You’ve seen how pale he is, right?”
Paul stares at him. It’s right under his nose and he still has no clue. “Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
“What’s that tone for?”
With a deep breath, Paul leans forward in his chair and presses his hands together. “Have you thought that maybe there’s another reason he’s trying so hard to keep the sun off himself? Like, y’know…that he’s a vampire?”
“Aww, c’mon,” Ringo says, rolling his eyes. “It was funny the first time, but now it’s just getting old. I don’t know why you two are always bein’ so cold to George, but it better stop soon. He’s the loveliest, sweetest man I’ve ever met, and I’m not gonna sit back and let you keep slandering him like this.”
John throws his arms up in defeat. “Forget it, Paulie. It’s a lost cause.” He stands up and drags Paul with him. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” he tells Ringo as he heads out and slams the door. On their way to the car, they pass the garden. George looks up at them, and he zips the collar of his coat up higher.
5.
The week after that, neither John nor Paul hear a peep out of Ringo — and this would've been great cause for alarm if not for his daily Instagram stories, on which George was a constant presence. Paul can’t help but tense whenever he comes across Ringo’s newest selfies of him and George, him and George under a large black brolly, him and George in the kitchen with a blood-red shake in the background, and especially not the one of him and George at some club, Ringo smiling as George hugs him from behind.
George’s fangs are mere inches from Ringo’s neck.
Paul shuts his phone off. “We have to do something.”
“Excuse me?” John says from where he’s apparently asleep next to Paul in the bed. “What happened to not being arseholes about our mate’s boyfriend?”
“Our mate’s gonna die,” Paul hisses. “Wait. No. Un-die? Become a vamp too? God, John, y’know what I mean!”
“I do, but Ringo’s mad at us already,” John groans. “He fuckin’ worships that git an’ the ground he walks on.”
Paul can only sigh. He wishes John weren’t right. Sometimes he swears he smells the horrid tang of the blood-shake still hanging around their house.
“I’d rather Ringo be mad at us than dead,” Paul says quietly. “Or whatever it is that vampires are.”
“And ya think I don’t?” John retorts, but he sits up at last and faces Paul with a stony look. “We gotta think this through, Macca — what exactly is it we want Ringo to do?”
“I dunno. But I’d like for him to not get turned.”
“So does that mean we gotta make him break up with George?”
Paul gulps. He hasn’t thought of actually doing that. It’s such a cruel thing to even think about doing, especially to their own Ringo. He has the sudden, shameful inkling that maybe just maybe George is not a vampire after all. He’s a young man just like they are; a young man with a wardrobe of bygone clothes and a freaky health-shake streak, with teeth he can’t fix and skin prone to shrivelling in the English sun. George suddenly seems like any other man he can think of.
Vampires weren’t even real anyway.
“...oh my fucking God.”
“Thought so,” John says, but without a single hint of standard smugness. “You wanna be responsible for that?”
“No! Fuck,” Paul hides his face in his hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
“Now don’t bring Jesus into this,” John chides gently. He puts his arms around Paul and they drift off to sleep at long last, for what seems to be the first time in days. So in the morning when they are both brand new, Paul rehearses his speech thrice before dialling Ringo and begging to make amends.
“I… I know we haven’t been very nice to George lately—”
“Well duh.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Paul grits his teeth. “John and I were wondering if you guys wanted to do a… y’know, a double date? With us? We could go see that new movie together and then go bowling, y’know—”
Ringo gives a shriek so filled with delight that even John startles from across the room. But that’s the Ringo they know and love.
“We’ll be there! We’ll be there before you get there! Thanks Paul, this means so much, you have no idea. And George says thank you too, he was gettin’ worried that you and John hated his guts or somethin’!”
“Oh, no,” Paul laughs, or at least tries to. “We’d hate to give him that idea.”
It just so happens that the only available tickets for the movie they want are for the midnight screening, which George enthusiastically agrees to. When he and Ringo show up, John and Paul are floored by how absolutely normal they are — they sit cuddled up together in their couples’ seat, exchanging kisses and the occasional whispery joke about whatever’s unfolding onscreen. They look a right pair, Ringo sipping his fizzy cineplex soda and George with his shake; John makes some quip about how ghastly their next kiss will be. And if Paul chuckles at that, then that’s absolutely normal too.
“Wellllll,” John yawns as they exit the cinema. “That wasn’t terrible.”
“Oh c’mon, it was good,” Paul laughs.
“I could barely see anythin’ with all those lens flares,” Ringo laughs as well. “George, what d’you think?”
“I dunno. I wasn’t payin’ attention,” George swiftly stashes his bottle of shake into his leather jacket and kisses Ringo on the cheek. “Was gettin’ way too lost in yer eyes.”
John and Paul roll their eyes. Even at their worst, they aren’t ever this sickening.
“Might wanna find yer way back for a bit,” John says. “Cause whoever loses at bowling has to buy us all supper.”
“A small price to pay,” and George smiles at him, his gaze no less intense but much friendlier, softer, as they pass the doors and enter the dimly lit car park. “And I’m aces at bowling, so watch yer back.”
The car park is semi-full with people who have just been to the screening, but everything is peacefully quiet. Ringo says something about ditching his scarf and makes a beeline for his car, while John checks the location of the bowling alley. Paul hangs back to have a smoke and offers the pack to George.
“No thanks,” George says. “I’ve quit.”
“Oh, that’s nice. How long ago?”
“Long enough.”
“Aight, suit yourself.” Paul lights the stick between his lips, takes a puff — when a car horn and the screech of tyres break through the air.
A dark van skids sideways towards the parked cars, and Paul’s cig drops out of his mouth as he spots Ringo between his car and the careening van. He hears a gasp leave him, feels himself lurch forward, but not before a heavy, metallic CRUNCH falls over the night.
Paul screams. John does too, pushing at his shoulders from behind, already grasping his phone to call for help.
But they don’t need it.
George, who had been beside Paul a mere second ago, is wedged firmly between Ringo and the halted van. He shields Ringo behind one leathered arm, the other outstretched towards the van’s passenger door, now sporting a ferocious hand-shaped dent.
John’s mouth opens and shuts, but he makes no sound. Paul can’t even close his.
“Oh, fuck, Ritchie,” George gasps, desperately cupping Ringo’s face as if he hadn’t just proved what John and Paul had been hoping wasn’t true. “Are you hurt???”
Ringo says nothing, his blue eyes blown wide open as they stare up at George. Some passersby have gotten closer, whispering in frantic voices along with the shocked driver of the van, but they’re all silenced as Ringo clasps George around the neck and lets out a cry.
“You saved me!” Ringo shouts, grabbing George’s face in return and smacking kiss after kiss on him. “Oh my God George, you saved me! Thank you, thank you, thank you, God you’re so strong, I love you—”
John’s mouth falls open and stays. Paul can feel the gravel of the car park under his dropped jaw.
They did not go bowling that night.
+1
John and Paul sit side-by-side on George and Ringo’s sofa, as still as statues. Ringo has gone downstairs to do the washing, so George is preparing them tea. They’re not sure why the hell they didn’t insist on meeting somewhere public, somewhere with Ringo present, or just plain somewhere they were less likely to be attacked by the indisputable vampire that was their mate’s boyfriend.
“Sorry again for cancelling,” George says, emerging from the kitchen with an elaborate Victorian tea set. John jumps a bit in his seat when he sees the red-filled biscuits laid out on one of the beautiful plates, but when George sets them down he sees they’re only jammy dodgers from a tin. “I got worried Ritchie might be in shock.”
“If anyone’s in shock you’d think it’d be you,” John laughs uneasily. “You’re the one who, uh, stopped the van.”
“And left with yer arm intact,” Paul adds. “That must be some shake alright.”
George shrugs. “Did what I had to do.”
“Yes, yes…” says John.
“Indeed…” says Paul.
George raises an eyebrow (a damn sharp one at that), but doesn’t respond to this. He’s still in last night’s leather jacket, no doubt the same one that had concealed his enormous bottle of shake. Paul can practically smell the blood.
“Well,” George motions to the teacups before leisurely sitting in the armchair across them both. “Help yerself. Unless we wanna wait for Ritchie—”
“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE,” Paul interrupts. He grabs John’s arm. “WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.”
“........excuse me?”
“You stopped a fucking van,” John says.
“It was about to hit my boyfriend.”
“You stopped it with one hand!”
“And it’s still sore as hell, would ya believe?”
“NOPE,” Paul says, emboldened by the adrenaline rush. “It barely grazed you. And there’s no way you would’ve run to Ringo in time.”
“I…” George’s voice was starting to crack. “I exercise a lot?”
“LIKE HELL YOU DO!” John says. “How old are you?”
“Uh. Twenty-three?”
“And how long have you been twenty-three?”
“...………….what the fuck?”
“Fine, we don’t hafta know. We don’t care ‘bout that,” Paul says, glaring menacingly at George but finding himself unable to commit because George actually looks scared, curling further into his armchair. “But what we do care about is Ringo.”
“I care about him too,” George says, a tad indignantly. “I love him.”
“Enough to TURN him?”
“I…………………. don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“YES YOU DO!”
Then the front door opens. Ringo whistles a jaunty tune as he strolls in with a load of fresh laundry.
“Oh hey lads!” He says with such a cheery smile. “Sorry I’m late, did you—”
“RINGO YOUR BOYFRIEND IS A VAMPIRE,” John shouts.
“IT’S TRUE AND WE HAVE PROOF,” Paul follows.
“Fucking HELL,” Ringo lets out an epic groan. “Not this shit again.”
“Wait.” George sits up. “Again?”
“Even I know vampires ain’t real, love,” Ringo says. “Dunno why these berks keep tellin’ me otherwise.”
Paul can’t take it anymore.
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence that your FANGED boyfriend who only drinks something that smells like DEATH because he’s allergic to GARLIC, THE SUN, and MODERN CLOTHES—” he catches sight of George’s leather jacket “— MOSTLY modern clothes — and saved you from getting HIT BY A VAN WITHOUT SO MUCH A SCRATCH—”
“He exercises a lot!” Ringo argues.
“GET YOUR HEAD OUT YOUR ARSE RICHARD!” John yells. Then he turns to George. “If you don’t fuckin’ tell him, I swear to God—”
“OKAY FINE,” George yells back. “IT’S TRUE. I’M A VAMPIRE.”
The pause that follows is so pregnant that it gives birth.
“Haha, very funny,” Ringo chuckles, but now he’s standing next to where George has enveloped himself in the armchair and is patting his hair. “Shall we have tea now?—”
“I’ve been alive 300 years.”
“Sure you have, babe.”
“That painting you guys found is of me.”
“The resemblance sure is uncanny.”
“And my shake,” George sighs as he produces his bottle from the inside of his jacket and uncaps it right where Ringo can see. “You’re right. It’s blood.”
A pungent smell erupts from the bottle. Ringo jolts backwards, hand to his nose and his eyes widening to the size of the saucers on the tray. He stares at George, blinking miles a minute. John, too, plugs his nose and coughs, though he turns just in time to catch Paul’s gaze of guilt and relief, but also apprehension. Vampires were real, and they had one right here in their midst.
“Oh my God,” Ringo says at last.
“I’m so, so sorry I didn’t tell you,” George says, agonised, putting away the bottle and clutching Ringo’s hand with his own pale ones. “I love you. I really love you. I was thinkin’ of telling you but I was so afraid you’d leave and I—”
“Oh my God,” Ringo repeats. “This is just like Twilight.”
John and Paul both choke on air.
“Um.” George says. “What.”
“You’re a real vampire??”
“Yeah.”
“Are you gonna drink my blood?”
“No!” George cringes. “I don’t even kill anything. I just drink a bit of the rabbits trying to snack on the garden. And I’ve had lots of gardens.”
“Oh my God, this is like Twilight,” John says.
“When the hell did you watch Twilight?” Paul hisses.
“The first movie’s kinda good,” George sighs as Ringo resumes stroking his hair. “But Ritchie, you’re not… you aren’t scared?”
“How could I be? You’re the loveliest, sweetest, most gentle man I’ve ever met,” Ringo’s hand drifts up to caress George’s cheek, that long blanched bone, and the tenderness of it makes John and Paul wish that they themselves could be this sickeningly enamoured with each other. “And you’re so beautiful. I always thought your fangs were bloody hot. Hah, geddit?”
Never mind.
“Ahem. Thank you,” Paul tries. “For promising not to drink our friend.”
“I would never,” George says, but then looks aside at Ringo. “Unless?...”
“Figs would fly before ya even think of turnin’ me.”
“Pigs, Ringo.” John corrects.
“Have it your way,” Ringo kisses George like John and Paul aren’t there. “Now what was that you were sayin’ about your many gardens?”