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George didn't want Ringo.
He didn't need Ringo.
He certainly didn't love Ringo.
"George?"
Pattie was gazing a little anxiously at George; he realised he'd been staring into face again, his mouth hanging slightly agape.
"Sorry."  He grasped Pattie's hand.
"It's OK."  She smiled warmly, squeezing George's hand.
Don't want him, don't need him, don't love him.
"So ..."  George finally found a small ring on Pattie's hand, and absent-mindedly slid it up and down her finger.
Don't.  Need.  Him.
She frowned momentarily.
"It's - it's a self-preservation thing," he gabbled.
"A - a what, sorry?"
"Doesn't matter."  He forced a quick smile, and Pattie relaxed.
"So ... so what d'you want to do after this?"
George had always entertained the notion that, if he and Ringo ever split, he would be able to charm a girl instantly.  After all, girls did, as it happened, seem to like him.  And Pattie certainly liked him, that much was obvious.  He didn't need to impress her.  Which suited him just fine.  He'd been getting sick of making the effort for Ringo when there was - he realised now, he should have always known - nothing between the two of them.  It was a waste.
"I - I don't know ..."  She smiled coquettishly.  "Whatever you want to do."
"Great."  Everything was going perfectly.  Wasn't it?
I do not want him.  At all.
"Well - well, why don't I pay - " - their waiter had dropped the bill on the table nearly ten minutes ago - "- and then we can - go for a walk?  Or something?"  He felt about thirteen years old.
"That - that sounds great."
"Fab."  George let go of Pattie's hand, quickly pushing the little ring back onto her finger.  He reached for his wallet, which was stashed with scraps; old receipts, scribbled notes, photographs.   One photograph in particular, as always, caught his eye.  He slipped it out, meaning to push it to the back, to quash these stupid feelings once and for all, but holding the tiny photo between his fingers he could only look.
The picture was months old, crumpled and the ink smeared.  It was cut from a magazine article, a promotional piece headed by a photo of the four of them pulling awkward smiles.  Yet there was something in Ringo's smile, in the little curve of his lip, the crinkles round his bright eyes, that had been intoxicating to George.  He remembered that night so clearly, remembered lying on his bed gazing at the photo, just that photo, for hours.  Eventually, barely aware of what he was doing, he had cut around Ringo's face, slipping it into his wallet, where it had stayed ever since.
Ringo had always asked him to get out the photo, and George had always done so, whispering in Ringo's ear how he had kissed his tiny photographed face weeks before they shared their first tentative kiss; how he had known, the moment he saw it, that he had fallen in love with Ringo.
No - no, he thought he'd fallen in love with Ringo, he deluded himself with these stupid ideas of true love because he thought it would make him happy.  George only realised it now, but he wasn't - he wasn't  - in love with Ringo.  Just in love with the idea of love.
He looked down at the photo again, on the verge of tearing it up; yet something in it irresistibly caught his eye, bringing back all the memories, of longing for Ringo, of crying over him, of cursing his love for him every day because it brought him so much pain.  Even after he had admitted it all to Ringo, after every kiss they had shared, it was never easy.  Only their closest friends knew about the two of them, so they had to hide away if they so much as wanted to hold hands, could never talk properly to each other in public - they had to pretend in front of the entire world.  Even casually looping his arm around Ringo's shoulders made George wary, when it felt like press were watching their every move.  It was no wonder that he had sometimes felt so trapped that he almost wished that he'd never fallen in love with Ringo.
Yet - yet why would he have put himself through all this, if not for Ringo?  He had longed for him, lusted after him in the faint hope that he might one day feel Ringo's lips on his, and now he held up this charade because he couldn't imagine it any other way.  He cherished every kiss shared in secret, every touch, every whisper of love, and so often they were all he had to live for.
If that wasn't love, what was?

Pattie pulled her coat tighter against the biting wind.  It blew into her face, making her tearful eyes sting and blowing the hair she'd so carefully styled a couple of hours ago all over the place.  Desperately, she tried to hold it in place, but stopped, gasping, when the heel of her shoe broke with a sharp crack.  She tugged it off her foot, falling against the wall beside her and cradling the broken shoe her hands.
She'd bought these shoes especially for tonight - styled her hair, meticulously applied her make-up, agonised over outfits, especially for tonight.
What a waste it all seemed now.
It would have been so much easier if George had been the way Pattie feared he might, a cruel, callous womaniser - but he plainly wasn't, he was plainly sweet and loving and beautiful and quite plainly in love with Ringo.
Not that he'd told her, of course.  But Pattie wasn't stupid, she'd seen him gazing at the photo, seen that unmistakable flash in his eyes.  Actually, now everything was beginning to click together, all clicking together to spin out George and Ringo's little drama, their little ballad.  The look on Ringo's face when he'd seen George and Pattie kissing, George's hesitance when he did kiss her that Pattie had simply, vainly assumed to be restraint, even the way the two of them were practically lying on top of each when she had approached them that morning.  It all added up.
Pattie realised dully that there were tears in her eyes again, trickling down her cheeks without her noticing.  She didn't bother to wipe them away, instead reaching in her coat pocket to find the scrap of paper from earlier.  The six signatures, three from George and three from Ringo, were immediately smudged by the drizzly rain, the kisses George had scrawled under his name becoming an inky blur.  Pattie screwed it up.
Someone was playing a guitar.  The tune was a gentle, lilting one; for some reason, something in it triggered fresh tears in Pattie's eyes.
"Miss?  Are you OK?"
Pattie froze, the tears still hot on her face, and looked slowly up towards the source of the voice.  In the darkness, she could just make out the dim outline of a young man sitting on top of the wall, a guitar balanced precariously on his lap.
"I -"  She shook her head, her words swallowed by tears again.
"Here, it's alright."  He took hold of her hand, leaning down from his position on top of the wall.  Pattie stared up at his shadowed face, trying to make out his features.  A small, comforting smile was just visible on his face, and he squeezed her hand gently.
"He can't have been that special, whoever he was."
"But - "
"You're dead pretty.  I reckon you could have whoever you wanted."
In spite of everything, Pattie found herself smiling into the darkness.

"Ringo?"
No answer, though the television was still on.
"Are you awake?"
George sighed, shrugging off his wet jacket and dropping it to the floor.
"Sweetheart?"
"Don't call me sweetheart."
Smiling sadly, George sidled over the the sofa, where Ringo was curled in front of the television, wrapped in a blanket.  He sat beside him tentatively; Ringo didn't look at him.
"I'm sorry."
"You said that before."  Ringo's eyes were fixed on the television, his tone flat.
"I mean it this time."  He reached for Ringo's hand, but he snatched it away.
"Leave off, will you?"
"Ringo, please - "
"I said leave off."
"I love you, Ringo ..."  George could hear his own voice shaking - he felt as if he might cry again, but he couldn't.  Not now.
"George - "
"At least - at least look at me, would you?"
Ringo looked as if he was about to speak again, but instead he sat up resignedly, turning to give George an arresting look.
"What, George?"
George swallowed nervously.
"I just wanted to say that - that, I'm sorry -"
Ringo snorted.
"- I really am, Ringo, really and truly.  I love you -"
"Hmm, somehow I don't think I believe that, George."
"But -"
Giving George a final, withering look, he stood up, turning away, but George tugged desperately on his sleeve.
"Wait."
"Why should I?"
"I -"  He bit his lip, loosening his grip on Ringo's sleeve.  All he could think was that he loved him, wanted him, needed him so much, and that photo, that had always meant so much to him - how was he meant to explain all that to Ringo?
"I haven't got time for this -"
"D'you - d'you remember that photo?"
Ringo frowned.
"What photo?"
"This one ..."  He pulled his wallet from his pocket, took out the photo and held it up in front of Ringo's face.
Letting out a barely-audible sigh, Ringo sat back beside George.
"What about it?"
"Remember what I used to say about this photo?"
"I -"  He felt Ringo tense beside him; Ringo closed his eyes, leaning back.
"Yeah, you used to say -"  Ringo stopped, staring at George, who had just taken his hand, barely aware of what he had been doing.
"Sorry," he muttered, making to move his hand - but Ringo didn't snatch his own away, just fixed George with that same unreadable look.  Unsure of what to do, George tightened his grip on Ringo's hand and cleared his throat.
"I used to say that - that when I first saw this photo, that was when I knew -"
It felt oddly awkward saying it now, when they were sat stiffly side by side, Ringo's eyes filled with something that even George couldn't understand, that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.  Tentatively, he tried to shift into a more familiar position, pulling Ringo close and cupping his chin in his free hand.  He looked right into his eyes, searching for something that would tell him that Ringo still loved him, that it was all going to be OK.
George took a deep breath.  Please, let it all be OK.
"When I first saw this photo, months ago, that was when I knew I'd fallen in love with you."
Ringo opened his mouth, about to protest, but George pressed a finger to his lips.
" - and I'm not just saying that, Ringo, I know it's true - d'you really think I would've chosen to fall in love with a bloke?"
"You -"
"I thought you were going to hate me, I thought everyone was going to hate me, and for ages I tried to pretend to myself that I hadn't gone and fallen in love with you.  But you were all I thought about, all the time.  I couldn't sleep at night 'cause I'd be lying there imagining what it'd be like to kiss you, I used to cry when I was on my own, 'cause I thought it was all completely hopeless.  It was honestly painful, Ringo."
Ringo exhaled slowly, his breath hot on George's neck; he took that as a sign to continue.
"When - when I first saw that photo, when I found it, I was just staring at it, literally for hours, and I didn't even know why - well, I did, I knew I'd fallen in love with you then."  He felt Ringo's hand tighten around his own.
"And - and I'd always been told it was wrong, being in love with blokes, and that's what I thought too, I s'pose.  But when you - I don't know, Ringo, when you were just there, I s'pose I realised it wasn't wrong, 'cause it wasn't something I could help, was it?  It just happened."
"George -"
Though Ringo's expression had softened, there was still a glimmer of doubt in his eyes that George couldn't bear to see.  He ran his hands through Ringo's hair, resisting the urge to kiss all over his sad face.
"I didn't plan it, I didn't just decide I was going to fall in love with you.  It just happened, 'cause you're - 'cause I think -"
George kissed Ringo quickly on the forehead, trying to calm his nerves.
"I think you're beautiful, and amazing, and perfect, and -"
"George, if you think all that - if that's true - why'd you kiss her?"
Licking his lips nervously, George dropped his gaze to the floor.
"I made a mistake."
He felt a hand on his cheek; Ringo gently lifted his face, so their eyes met again.
"That's what I meant, though, when I said I didn't just decide that I wanted to - that I wanted to fall in love with you.  I think - I think today, I think with Pattie, I was trying too hard, you know?  I was trying to - make myself fall in love with her.  And make myself fall out of love with you.  That's why I said all those stupid things."
Ringo pulled his blanket tighter around himself, pressing his lips together.
"But - Ringo -"
Grasping Ringo's arm, George pulled him a little closer, so now there was barely an inch of space between them.
"- it didn't work.  It never worked.  'Cause I'd never forget what's it like to kiss you, or all the time I spent thinking about you, or -"
"The photo?"
"Yes - yeah, the photo.  I'll never forget falling in love with you, Ringo."
They were so close now that George's lips brushed against Ringo's forehead as he spoke.
"And I s'pose tonight - tonight, when I looked at the photo again, really looked at it, I fell in love with you - I fell in love with you all over again."
A smile finally broke Ringo's face, and oh God, George had forgotten how gorgeous his smile was, how long it had been since he'd seen that smile, kissed those lips -
"George, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart.
"One more thing."
Of course.  One more thing, then it would be OK again.
"I'm sorry, Ringo.  For everything.  For -"
His lips were stoppered by Ringo's; he gasped in surprise, but quickly melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Ringo's waist.  He probed Ringo's lips gently with his tongue, and Ringo opened his mouth immediately, moaning into George's mouth.  George found his eagerness unexpected, but deeply intoxicating - when they finally broke apart, they were both red-faced, and Ringo had a delicious, familar glint in his eye.
"It's three in the morning, you know."
"Mmm ..."  Ringo raked a hand through George's hair.  "I make that bedtime."