Ringo sat shaking on the couch, clutching his phone as his brain worked hard to find a way to talk himself out of this nasty situations he had created for himself. George knew. He knew about the party and he was coming over. Paul had texted him as soon as George had left, blaming himself for running his mouth, but also angry at Ringo for still. not. having. told. him. Ringo knew he was right. Goddammit. He hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings, and now he had gone and hurt them exactly because of that. How stupid was he? George didn't deserve him.

When he heard a loud, sudden knock on the door, Ringo jumped almost a feet in the air and nearly dropped his phone in shock. He remained as quiet as possible, fearing it was George. Maybe... maybe if he stayed quiet and pretended not to be home, he would leave? Ringo whined at his own thoughts. That kind of cowardly behaviour was what had gotten him into trouble in the first place. The only way he as going to solve this, was to face the facts and try to explain himself and hope George would understand. He had to, right?

The knocking continued, loud, fast and incessant, making Ringo shrink into himself with every single knock. Yes, it was obvious it was George. No one else would want to speak with him this badly!

"Richard! I know you're home! I saw your car parked outside. Now open this door!" George's voice came from behind the door. He sounded genuinely pissed off and that didn't help with Ringo's practically non-existent courage at all. Neither was the fact that he had called him Richard, rather than Ringo or Richie. George never called him Richard. He closed his eyes briefly and took a couple of deep breaths, before getting up and reluctantly walking over to the front door. With trembling finger, he pulled the door open.

If Ringo had thought George to be angry before, he now realised he was absolutely furious. His face stood tight with anger and his eyes weren't their usual comforting chocolate brown, but instead icy cold and almost black. His lips were nothing more than a thin line, and Ringo could see he had his jaw tightly closed together. He held his shoulders high, making him tower over the older man even more so than normally. On impulse, Ringo took a step back, unwillingly giving George the space to step inside the apartment. Muffin meowed and hurried into Ringo's bedroom, where she dove under the bed to hide.

"George, luv, before you say anything... let me explain, yeah?" Ringo asked softly as he closed the door behind the other man, watching him from the corner of his eyes. George, however, wasn't looking at him. And now he was in his apartment, he didn't look as angry anymore. His shoulders had slumped and he was staring at the few books Ringo owned and placed on a few shelves above the couch. Ringo couldn't see his face at this angle. He did hear a large sigh as George let his fingers skim across the cover of a book- Ringo couldn't see which one.

"You lied to me," George said with a deep sigh, putting the book back, "Why didn't you tell me, Ringo? We were talking about it all last night and you never even said anything!" He almost shouted that last, making Ringo wince.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, inching closer to the younger man, "I wanted to-"

"No, you didn't. If you had, you would've done it! You had plenty of opportunities!" George shot at him, his voice raised in anger. Ringo fell silent at that, knowing George was right. He had had plenty of opportunities, most of which he had created himself for exactly that purpose. He had no excuse for that.

"I did want to, Geo," Ringo tried anyway, pleading, "but I didn't want to hurt you. I-I know you like your job and I-I know that's all it is, but... but..."

"But what?" George snapped, turning around to face him, his eyes wide in their sockets, nearly dropping from them. Instinctively Ringo took a step back and made himself even smaller than he already was. "Tell me, Richard? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you lie to me yesterday. You knew I was excited about the whole thing- even if policemen isn't really my thing- and yet you didn't tell me anything. Why?"

"Because I was jealous, okay?" Ringo shouted suddenly, hands like fists by his side, "I am jealous. It is difficult to look at you when you work and I know it would be worse if those men were my friends and colleges. It's fucking terrible for me to see you crawl into some guy's lap with a wave of their finger, to do as they please and whisper naughty things in his ear and expose yourself like some... some..."

"It's what I do! It's my job! I asked you plenty of times if you were okay with it and every single time you said you were. Every. Single. Time. Ringo."

"I know! I know you did and I know what I said. I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. I know you need this job. I know it's nothing more to you than that. I know you don't like any of those men. But what if you did? What if you did...?" Ringo's voice died off, creating a deafening silence between the two as they stared at each other. George's cheeks had gone pink, his upper lip curling up in anger and hurt. Ringo himself was afraid to move. He stood completely rigid, arms stiff along his body, his breathing shallow.

"I..." Ringo started again, his voice tight from the tension in his body, "It's hard for me to be supportive of what you do, when all I want is punch those guys and let no one touch you."

"I'm not your property." George interrupted him, his voice cracking. Ringo looked up at him in surprise, and swallowed thickly as he saw something unreadable on the younger man's face. The anger was still there, burning behind his eyes, but there was something else as well. Something... weaker. Painful. "I like my job. I enjoy it. I don't care if you don't understand that. But those men don't mean anything to me. You however..." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I'm not some toy, Richard. I make my own decisions and no one owns me. No one tells me what to do. It's my life. My body. My job. My... feelings. I'm not for sale."

"I never said you were!" Ringo said, trying to keep his voice calm, but the desperation in his voice was more than clear.

"I let those guys look at me. I let those guys touch me. And they pay me for it. Because it's my job. They don't own me, Richard. And you most certainly don't. I'm a stripper. I take my clothes off and over those guys something pretty to wank to. But they don't own me. I give them what I'm willing to give and they take it. I choose whom I go for. I choose which guys can and cannot touch me. I choose them. They don't choose me and they certainly don't get to decide what I do. I am in charge."

"That doesn't change the fact that-" Ringo started, angry again and annoyed to be spoken to as if he was an idiot.

"Doesn't it?" George asked, "I like you, Richie. Oh lord, I do, but do you seriously think I would fall in love with some random guy who nearly comes in his jeans by just looking at me? The don't own me. They don't get to chose what they want. I do. These are my choices. Do you seriously think I would betray you with any of them?"

"You got with me, didn't you? You met me in that stupid club! I fucking paid you, too. Who says that won't happen again?"

"Because I'm a stripper? You think that because I'm a stripper I'll cheat on you sooner?!"

"That's not what I meant! I just... I should be the only one who gets to see you like that. You're mine." George's paled at that and looked away from Ringo's eyes. Immediately, he knew he said something wrong. He sighed and walked over to the younger man to lay a hand on his shoulder for comfort, but George slapped his hand away and took a step back.

"I'm not your property." He repeated, that strange emotion crossing his face again, "You don't get to decide what I can and cannot do Richie. You cannot make these decisions for me. I'm not a whore." He snarled and with that, he pushed past the smaller man and made for the door. He left without another word, leaving Ringo speechless in the doorway, not understand what had happened exactly, but knowing it certainly wasn't good. A gnawing feeling in his stomach made him doubt whether he'd see George ever again.

               As he pulled the door closed, George let out a long, deep sigh. His body was still tense and he felt a horrendous headache coming up. He put away his keys in the little bowl on the mantelpiece. He toed of his shoes and dropped his coat onto the floor before stumbling over to the couch, relieved Paul hadn't showed his face yet. He felt utterly exhausted and was not in the mood to do any talking. He curled up on the couch, hugging his legs and stared blankly at the fireplace. His mind felt numb and it was impossible to hold onto a thought for long enough, so he let his mind go blank. After a few moments, he let his eyes fall shut, but he couldn't find sleep.

When Paul did finally show his face, a whole hour had past. He came in through the front door and judging by the sounds he was carrying groceries. George didn't get up to help however, like he normally would, which seemed to tell Paul all he needed to know. He closed the door and put the bags onto the dining table, before slowly approaching the man on the couch. When George finally opened his eyes again, Paul was sitting on his knees in front of him, reaching for him with his left hand to push a few hairs behind his ear.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, nearly whispering. George shrugged, unsure himself if he was. He wasn't angry anymore, which he supposed was good. Nor was he anxious. He just felt... empty. Disappointed perhaps. Honestly, he didn't know what he felt, but it wasn't good.

"Do you want some tea?" Paul asked empathetically and George nodded. He moved to sit up, but Paul easily pressed him back down. George watched him in silence as Paul moved to pick the bags back up and move them into the kitchen to make some tea for them. George felt lucky to have a friend like Paul. He always simply understood. Paul soon emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and handed one to George as he helped him sit up a bit more. He himself sat down on the ground, watching George's face curiously. The younger man couldn't help but smile at that, knowing his friend would be bursting with curiosity about what had happened.

"Are you and Richie okay?" Paul asked finally. George shook his head and Paul moved a bit closer to him, laying a gentle hand on his thigh to let him know he was there for him. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure..." George replied, frowning as he tried to remember what had happened between him and Ringo, but he couldn't remember much more than their voices shouting, their words incomprehensible. Everything else was a mere blur. Paul sighed and squeezed his thigh.

"I'm sorry." he said and George nodded.

"Me too." He took another sip from his tea.

               It was hard to focus on his work when all he could do was think about George. Everything reminded him of him, which meant he hated everything. Muffin had remained under his bed for a good hour longer after George had left. When she had finally came out, she had jumped onto the bed and curled up on his chest, over his heart, licking her paw idly. Ringo hadn't managed to sleep much that night. He lay tossing and turning in bed, his eyes flickering constantly to the bright numbers on his alarm clock. The hours had seemed to tick away incredibly slowly, each minute taking up the time of ten.

Eventually he had taken to staring out of the window and watching the stars as he tried not to move too much and wake up his cat, who had curled up against him for comfort. He had wondered what George had been doing. If he had been able to sleep. Or if he lay away as well, looking at the same stars and wondering if he was doing the same. Or perhaps he wasn't as hung up about what had happened.

His words still rung in his ears like a mantra, repeating itself over and over again, slowly driving him mad. I'm not your property. I'm not a whore. Did he really think he thought of him like that? As athing he owned? He sighed deeply and closed his eyes as he felt tears burning behind his eyes. Had he lost him? Was this the end?

When he had gotten into the car in the morning, the voice in his head hadn't gone. I'm not a whore. Was it really that different though? Was there so much difference between selling your body to someone to look at, and selling it for someone to touch and use? In the end you got fucked either way, didn't you? Either mentally, in someone's imagination or physically, in some cheap back room on a dirty mattress. You sold your body for sex. Did it really matter in the end which way it was? Ringo shook his head and started the car. He was horrible to even just suggest such a thing.

At work he hardly got anything done. He was constantly at the verge of falling asleep, due to the little rest he had gotten and he couldn't focus on a thing for longer than a minute at the time. His mind was continuously brought back to George and their argument. He'd over think little things he had said to him, wondering if he worded it different things wouldn't have ended this way. Maybe he shouldn't have come off that forcefully. Maybe he should have told George he hadn't wanted to disappoint him when he got so excited. That wouldn't be far from the truth. Maybe he should have told him he loved him.

When people asked him what was wrong, he told him he hadn't slept well and that he thought he was going down with someone. They seemed to believe him and he was told frequently to go home and have some rest, before he got ill. But Ringo didn't want to go home. At home there was nothing to distract him.

               The lecture seemed to be particularly boring today. Half of the students hadn't even turned up and George had long lost the thread of what the woman was discussing. He looked around him and noticed that most people who had come were scribbling and doodling in their notebooks, the tip of their tongues out of their mouths. The lecturer didn't seem to notice however. She mistook their feverish writing as taking notes and seemed rather pleased by this. A few other students were listening closely, raising their hands to ask questions or to give new points to discuss.

George was one of the few who didn't seem to have anything to do, though. His tea had gone cold, his book lay discarded on the floor and his phone was lying motionless and quiet next to his closed laptop. Occasionally, he tapped it with his fingers, his heart stopping briefly at the anticipation as he hoped for a message from Ringo. But there never was any. He had thought about texting him himself, but had always decided against it. Not from fear. He knew Ringo would be glad to hear from him, even if he was angry with him. But he had to know he had hurt him. It wasn't just the party. It was more than that. It was about trust. He didn't want Ringo to see him as just a stripper, hardly anything more than a whore, who'd do anything as long as you'd wave enough cash in front of his nose. He wasn't like that.

A loud thud at the front of the lecture hall, interrupted his thoughts, making him look up with fright. He sighed when he saw it had only been someone dropping his book. The lad blushed and hurried to pick them back up as the lecturer gave him a foul look for interrupting her, before she continued with her story. George sighed and glanced at his phone again, but the screen had already turned off again. He rested with his head in the palm of his hand and stared before him, at nothing in particular and simply waiting until the hour was finally finished.

               He didn't go to work that evening. He had Paul call him in sick. He wasn't really sick of course, but working was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He would much rather stay in bed and try to read a book and listen to sad music all evening. Paul, of course, had tried to persuade him to go. His friend still didn't know much about what had happened but he had sort of realised he and Ringo either had had a terrible fight and weren't talking for a while, or they had broken up. Honestly, George couldn't say which on was correct if Paul were to ask him. It was all very confusing.

"You sure you're not coming, Geo?" Paul asked as he threw his mate a bag of crisps. He already had his coat on and George could see he was wearing his shiny black heels. George wasn't sure why exactly, but he actually felt like wearing those. Walk around the apartment in high heels and tights, perhaps wearing some very short jeans that'd barely cover his arse, making his legs look even skinnier and extra long. He always felt good wearing those. He tore his eyes away from them and shook his head. He took the crisps and opened them roughly, nearly sending some to the floor.

"It might be good. Let Ringo see you're-"

"I told you I'm fine." George snapped at his friend, silencing him immediately. He could feel his eyes on him, watching him with that worried expression on his face. He wished Paul would just go and leave him alone to feel sorry for himself. What did Paul know about this anyway.

"I'll- err... I'll see you later then." Paul muttered. George didn't say anything. He kept his eyes closely focused on the telly without knowing what he was watching exactly, and listened as Paul grabbed his keys and walked to the door, his heels clacking on the wooden floor. When the door opened, however, the sound of his heels stopped.

"You might actually want to turn it on though." Paul's voice came from the doorway. George blinked a few times and flushed scarlet as he realised the television screen was still black. Had he been sitting here for almost fifteen minutes staring at fucking nothing?! The sounds of heels clacking on the floor filled the air again and next came the loud thud of the front door falling shut.

               It was quiet around the club. Ringo stood around a corner almost opposite it, watching closely as people went in and out. Paul's car was parked not far away- Ringo would recognise that old piece of junk anywhere, even if he hadn't memorised the licence plate- which meant Paul was in. But was George? He had been too late. Paul's car had already stood there when Ringo had arrived, so he wouldn't know.

For awhile he had debated with himself if he should go in or not, but came to the conclusion that it would be better to wait outside, hoping George would come out to get some fresh air or something, which he knew he sometimes did. Or else he'd be waiting here in the cold till the end of his shift. Or worse, he only then realised George hadn't been working at all. But it was better than starting a scene inside and getting thrown out by one of those tough-looking guys with chests so wide they looked like oddly well-behaved bears. He'd rather not end up with a few broken bones, a cut lip and a black eye. He doubted George thought that was attractive.

Finally, Ringo could see the door to the club open. He held his breath, crossing his fingers and praying to god it was George. It was Paul. He wore a short, pink, womanly coat, which he had wrapped tightly around himself and secured with a black belt around his waist, making it look even smaller than it was. He was walking on killer heels, easily 5 inches high, making Ringo almost want to come over to help him walk, but was surprised to see he was managing just fine even on the street. With them he wore black fishnets and black shorts, which looked more like panties than actual shorts. He hoped he wasn't cold. When he realised Paul was heading his direction, he quickly moved back behind the wall. Still, Paul reached him easily.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Paul said, pretending to be happy and surprised, but Ringo swallowed as he saw flashes of thunder in Paul's puppy eyes. He tried to smile.

"Paul, I-"

"Save it. What do you want?" Paul broke him off right away, leaning with a hand against the brick wall, and managing to look rather scary in the dark. Especially with his fury red lips and the coal around his eyelids.

"I-I was just..." Ringo started but found himself unable to finish the sentence. What was he doing here? Waiting for George? Wanting forgiveness? Paul tutted and let out a deep breath as he shifted his wait from his one foot to the other.

"George isn't here, if you were looking for him." He told him. Ringo opened his mouth to say something, but again didn't know what. "He's rather upset, actually. Didn't want to come to work. Now, why do you think that might be?" Paul asked him, looking him dead in the eye. Ringo swallowed again.

"Paul, I'm sorry. I- I didn't mean to hurt him. You know I didn't mean to hurt him. I-I just... I don't..."

"Listen, if you want things to get better between you and George- and god knows I do- you either apologize to him and hope for the best. Or you let him cool off for a bit and allow him to get his thoughts in order. You're not the only one who's confused and hurt." Paul told him sternly. Ringo quickly nodded.

"I know...I know..." He muttered quickly and Paul smiled at him, resting his hand on Ringo's shoulder and giving him a squeeze.

"I don't know what exactly is going on between the two of you and frankly, I don't have to know, but please just make up. He's been happy with you and I'd hate for him to lose it." Paul told him and Ringo nodded again quickly. Paul offered him a smile, which Ringo tried to return, before he man turned on his heels (how he did that, Ringo didn't know) and started to walk back to the club, where John was waiting for him. He wrapped an arm around Paul and walked him back inside and Ringo couldn't help but feel bad for him.