Hello!

I'm coming to you with a random Starrison oneshot
I've written it when I was pretty down and felt like a shit, so I just wanted to distract myself an' all

Blerghh, I'm a mess

But I love writing for this, I can just convert my emotions into words, that's great!

Disclaimer, it's sad as fuck. And it has not much plot, only disturbing topics as nuclear war. It's not even good (+ possible mistakes, oops) — just my small Calm-The-Fuck-Down-Anaria

Of course, it's Starrison. WHO WOULD'VE GUESSED!

Anyway, enjoy!

--

After~

“Guys?”

The silence was so overwhelming that the sound of their breaths seemed to shatter men’s eardrums. When one of them spoke, the rest jumped.

“Can you… ligh a candle? Please?”

“We should save it,” said Ringo quietly, but in fact he couldn’t resist Paul’s pleading tone, so he just reached for a match. Soon a small candle lightened up their faces. They looked savage. Dirty. Much time passed since the men stopped caring about their personal hygiene.

The men gazed at each other gloomily; Ringo was stairing at the floor, George was humming some song known by only him, John was looking around nervously and Paul was just laying in friend’s embrance. His skin around the face looked really bad, a streamlet of blood oosed from his face, but he didn’t even worry to wipe it. He was getting weaker and weaker.

The true horror was going on outside, though, as they believed. Bombs they’ve seen weren’t obviously the last ones dropped. They’ve seen images of destruction painted by death’s hand, ruins, ashes they have floundered in, fire they have ran away from. And everything with awareness that somewhere out there the entire cities vanished from the face of the Earth, melted with people in them. Without any warning. Quietly.

Lethally.

The four friends had evacuated, run away and hidden. Alone, surrounded by darkness and fear, without any protection, because in the face of nuclear war being Beatle couldn’t help you at all. They only had each other.

But not everyone was lucky enough to remain unaffected.

Af if to confirm it, Paul suddenly had seizures. It happened a few times before and made the rest of The Beatles panic.They had no medicines, they didn’t know hot to help him. They could only helplessly watch as they friend slowly faded away.

Right after this McCartney lost consciousness; Lennon tried to wake him up but with no result. Finally he gave up and cursed loudly, wiping away one lonely tear.

“God fucking dammit!”

George frowned, brutally taken back from his own world, to which he ran away.

“John, calm down,” whispered Ringo gently. “It’s no use.”

“Dammit!”

A violent thud in the wall; a groan of desperation.

“John, Paul is dying.”

Everybody turned to George, who spoke suddenly. He didn’t say a word so far, when the rest of them talked loudly about everything that had happened. But not him. He just sat there, hunched, as if his psyche couldn’t take it all.

But John wasn’t happy of the guitarist’s change; he looked at him with a fury. “Shut up, Harrison.”

“Paul is dying. He has spent too much time outside. He took the biggest dose of this shit from us all, and now he’s dying for the radiation sickness. We’re all probably dying.”

“Paul will survive! We will all survive! We’re all sick, but Paul will survive!” Lennon turned to Ringo, searching for a support, because so far he was a voice of reason of them all. But not this time. This time the small drummer only shook his head with a gloom face.

Everyone of them felt weakened, that’s true, but everything was happening so suddenly to McCartney — losses of consciousness, seizures, destroyed skin. Something terrible was going on with him, the one could say that the radiation was literally sucking life out of him.

After George’s words nobody dared to speak; fear engulfed their will to live, knocking everything aside, becuase they’ve witnessed a fall of the humanity.

Fear. Silence. Death. And just quite recently everything was so calm, good, they were preparing to to release another album.

Those times seemed to be ages ago.

Before~

George was sitting and playing random notes on his guitar. He was probably the only person to still use his guitar in the break of long, tiring recording session, but he didn’t care.

His gaze stopped at Ringo, drinking his tea calmly. They glanced at each other and then looked away. It was, in fact, they’re small game: getting caught for glancing and then looking back, silent watching. They’ve continued this game for years, never speaking about it.

Maybe they just didn’t want to rise a hope.

Ringo looked at the empty glass and left, murmuring something about getting properly drunk. John and Paul burst out laughing at the same time, too caught up in their own worlds to notice the drummer’s bad mood. But George did notice, followed Richard to a kitchen as a shadow, and stood in the doorway. The man leaned against a windowsill, watching the grey London’s panorama. Harrison himself didn’t need the blue sky - he had the blueness of his friend’s eyes.

Friend’s.

Ringo sighed and, not even turning back, said: “Are you looking for a tea or sad drummer?”

“I’m looking for happy drummer.” George walked to him, close, very close, risquing, how much can he break their private space. “Something’s going on, Ritchie.”

It started to rain outside, the raindrops hammered on the earth as people pulled their umbrellas out or walked faster.

“Yes,” murmured Starkey. “But it’s not the topic for today, I guess.”

The quiet Beatle didn’t know what to say. He searched the right words in the rain’s sounds, dullness of the fog… but he couldn’t find any.

He looked at Richard instead and their eyes met in the unspoken game. This game, however, lasted much longer than every other, when two men slowly drowned in each other. What was the date today? What were they doing before? Every truth faded. The game was still on, because neither George nor Ringo dared to look back, fearing this moment.

Until Harrison did it.

Leaning in and kissing Starkey right in the lips, in a move so quick and unnoticeable, Ringo wouldn’t believe it happened, if not sweet taste of Harrison’s lips, which Richard was about to remember forever.

“Geo?”

The guitarist disappeared as a ghost, but he managed to make Ringo smile.

After~

The memory came back to George’s mind, making him shiver. He sat closer to Ringo, ignoring his puzzled gaze. He needed closeness, his closeness. He was dead, and they all were, but he didn’t want to succumb in the darkness, he wanted Richard to disperse it.

Darkness. Grim creature lurking deep down in people’s heart. When the world was dying and bleeding out, it rested on its burned ruins, sneering at those who died.

Ringo hugged him. Maybe he also didn’t want to err in the darkness.

Seconds, minutes, hours. What the time and how fast was it passing? Or maybe it didn’t exist anymore, burnt out?

Paul was unconscious for hours, when he had another seizures. The rest of them looked at each other, hating themselves for not being able to help their friend anyhow. Nobody even knew how serious was his state. Finally, the seizures stopped; the bassist froze in John’s embrace as a rag doll.

Silence.

“Macca?”

The candle went out long ago — maybe for the better.

“Macca!”

Cold. It was so cold.

“Macca! Macca! Guys, he’s not breathing!”

They all got up instantly, when John put unconscious Paul on the floor; panicked leader started chest compression in a chaotic attempt of a resuscitation. Compression. Mouth-to-mouth. Ringo raised, wanting to help him, but Lennon pushed him aside. The horror seemed to last forever, John was still trying to resuscitate, not stopping for a second, even though he was breathing with difficulty himself. George and Ringo could only pray.

But McCartney still wasn’t moving.

“Don’t do this to me, don’t do this to me, Paul, Paul, Paul, Macca, Macca, no, no, no, don’t leave me, Macca,” John murmured over and over again like a last litany.

But God either didn’t exist or left this damn place; still no reaction.

Lennon continued nonetheless, begging, screaming, not giving up. George took deep, shaking breath — he was on the edge of tears.

“Johnny,” said Ringo quietly. “He’s gone.”

“He is not gone!” Lennon yelled — there was something in his voice the rest of them has never heard and never wanted to hear. “He’ll live! He’ll wake up!”

“John…”

“Wake up, Macca, wake up, please!”

Richard grabber the leader by the shoulders and shook him with all of his power. “John, calm down! Wake the fuck up! Paul is dead! He took the biggest doze! He’s dead!”

“Ringo’s right…” murmured Harrison weakly. “I’m sorry…”

“You’re sorry? YOU’RE SORRY?” John turned to him, his eyes shining with insanity. “You kept saying he’ll die! You wanted it, right, wanted his death?! HE’S DEAD NOW, YOU FUCKER!”

“John, what are you talking about? I didn-”

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Lennon his the quiet Beatle in the face so hard that he flew across the room, crashing into the wall. Ringo screamed. George raised hand to his face; it was viscous from the blood.

Richard tried to react somehow, but didn't make it as Harrison stood up and jumped to John. They mixed into one tangled mess of bodies, full of anger, hitting each other in a madness. Lennon was choking on his own tears, scratching friend right in the face to vent his feelings. And George screamed, screamed as the world was falling apart with everything they believed in.

Finally Ringo interrupted, separating them with eyes full of tears. “Calm the fuck down! What are you doing? Have you gone mad?! Paul is dead and you’re killing each other? Accusing each other, screaming whose fault is this?” His voice thundered above them, and they didn’t dare to speak, they stopped fighting. Just listened. “Looking for the culprit? Blame the world, blame the fucking government! But not each other! Paul died, because people constantly thinking how to destroy this world killed him! Do you want to be just like them?! I thought we were supposed to stick together!” The drummer’s voice was growing louder and louder, until he stopped and hopelessly fell onto the floor.

John and George turned their heads in shame and looked at Paul’s body; he seemed so small and delicate after death.

The atmosphere became gloom. They’ve witnessed their friend’s slow death — the last sign that the world turned into dust.

Lennon was crying quietly, murmuring something from time to time. Finally he whispered: “That’s me who should’ve died. Not Paul.”

“None of us should've,” whispered Richard

George stood up, picked a small, dirty blanket, and covered McCartney's body, saying quiet farewells.

The death was waiting for them all.

Before~

“Geo?” Ringo came into the room, closing the door carefully. George sighed, not wanting to go through this conversation. He knew pretty well what was this gonna be about.

“Yeah?” He cursed himself, cursed that damn kiss, that damn game, that made him feel something towards Richard. But… his heart desired that kiss so much, it just had to happen.

Why? Why did he fall for his best mate? Why did he push Pattie’s love away, thinking only about Ringo?

“Don’t beat around the bush,” said Harrison sharply. “I know you want to talk about the kiss. I'm sorry. We can just go home and forget about this.”

The blue-eyed man blinked, but his face was motionless. “But I don't want to forget.”

His words pierced Harrison’s heart like an arrow; he's never even considered this option, never considered Richard to love him back. No. He pushed this feeling back too strongly. George kept telling to himself it's just a stupid attraction, but now his heart melted

He swallowed, looking for right words. “So is it a good memory for you?”

“The best.” There was something childish in Ringo's big blue eyes, so honest and self-confident. Maybe George needed a bit of this self-confidence himself?

He grabbed the drummer and brought him closer with a sudden passion, because he wanted to let all of his feelings free. Starkey raised his hand and stroked the man’s cheek, smiling.

They looked at each other, blushing deeply, breathing faster.

Finally, Geo kissed him. Ringo didn't hesitate for a moment and kissed back. He stopped only to murmur quiet “I love you” into Harrison's lips. The most beautiful feeling in the guitarist’s eyes — when he realized Richard truly meant those words.

No, he didn't need to push his feelings out anymore.

After~

Nobody bothered to light up the candle. They felt better in the darkness anyway.

John stopped crying and fell asleep, haunted by nightmares — and so did Ringo. George was walking nervously all around the small room.

Everything was over for them. They’ve hidden like rats, running away from death, chased by fear, but there was no such a thing as safe place anymore. What were they waiting for?

For nothing. They’ve run in the strongest animal instinct — a will to live.

Suddenly, Harrison stopped. Because he knew what he had to do.

He walked to Ringo slowly; the man looked so innocently in his sleep, like a child. He didn’t deserve this whole nightmare, he deserved long, happy life, with wife and children by his side. Without pain, fear, death. George wanted to give him all of this, but couldn’t. He could only plant a tender kiss on the drummer’s forehead, whisper ‘I love you’, turn back, wipe tears away and leave.

Nobody deserved this end.

Before~

This part of the studio was empty; they could freely enjoy their closeness, touch of their hands, their mutual love.

“What if John or Paul catch us?” asked Starkey.

“I don’t care honestly,” Harrison murmured, because he didn’t want to care. He hugged his lover and kissed right in the lips. Ringo didn’t even try to resist — he didn’t want to resist. “I love you so much.”

His fingers were touching George’s body lazily. “I love you too.”

Could they even be happier? Could the world take it all away from them?

They didn’t believe in this.

But soon the first bombs had fallen.

After~

George sighed when the light hit his used to complete darkness eyes painfully. He needed a moment to recover the vision.

But there was nothing to look at after all — not at the ruins, not at the destroyed buildings, not at the bodies or the sky that turned to gray from a poisonous radiation cloud. The world welcomed him with death and pain — and he didn’t care anymore. He just kept walking ahead, slowly, step by step, and every step was a memory recalled from George’s mind.

Step. Playing with his siblings, happy childhood’s years.

Step. His first guitar.

Step. Laying on the floor and listening to his stolen vinyl.

Step. A bitter taste of shame when John Lennnon was hurling insult at him.

Step. Breaking up with his girlfriend, helpless throwing things at the wall.

Step. Their first hit in the radio.

Step. Desperate screams of their fans, a fever of Beatlemania.

Step. The colour of Ringo’s eyes.

He was breathing the contaminated air, filling his lungs with it. Feeling weaker and weaker.

Step. Step. Everything was blurred. Another memories. I’m sorry, Richard.

George was hit by a sudden pain, his legs collapsed beneath him, so he just let himself fall. Harrison was laying in the ashes, coughing violently. The end was near, and he knew it, so he just looked up to the sky with eyes full of tears, pleading the darkness to come for him.

He said his goodbyes. Ringo will wait for him.

This thought calmed his mind.

George stopped fighting for breaths; the darkness listened to him.

THE END