Unfinished Business

Untitled Starrest that's kinda the same as Apologies

He visits the Cavern almost on the daily these days.

Quiet and unasuming, hidden on some corner where the stage lights didn't hit, he sits back and watches.

He listens and keeps the beat on his seat, and yearns for things that would never happen.

Life is unfair and the world is awful and sometimes you place all your bets on a horse and it still loses.

Sometimes you want in on a band and they decide to kick you out right before they make it big.

It happens. If he was any less proud he might be working on getting better, if he was less of an idiot he could pretend it never happened or try to get over it.

Sadly he was both, and so he sits on a stool and churns his resentment.

Despite everything, he has to admit this bloke is good. Better at fillings and improvised beats, even his tempo is steadier than he could ever manage.

Doesn't make him feel any better, but he can still appreciate him. His music, he means. No he doesn't.

Being honest, there's less than a microscopic chance he'd ever get noticed, and he likes it like that thankyouverymuch.

It's hard to see anything pass the sea of screaming girls from the stage, and he knows that firsthand.

How could his drummer ever spare him a single stare, then?

(Not that he wants one. Yes he does, but he's getting better at lying at himself).

Lord knows what attracts him to the lad upstage. He's not exactly an hysterical girl dying for a sliver of attention, after all.

He can appreciate a good musician. And a handsome man, too. It'd be impossible not to fall for those bright blue eyes, even all the way across the club.

There's something on the lad's smile, his cheerful demeanor, the energy within him, that just makes him... Soft.

It's a silly, pointless hope that he plans to keep on his chest until the day he dies, because honest to God what else is there to do with it.

He looks up just in time to see them bow, a rather new trick alongside the suits and the hair, as the whole room erupts in cheers and clapping.

That's his usual cue to go, as he harbors little to no interest in being found out here, so he jumps off the stool and sneaks through the back door.

Anything to avoid an awkward conversation.

***

It's rather silly and Ringo would rather die than say it out loud, but upon noticing Pete's presence amongst the crowd one particular night, his initial reaction is to feel elated.

He sees him there, hidden in plain sight in between the many other fans, and his heart starts doing leaps.

Should he be worried? Probably. Last time the lad was involved, the entire band got essentially assaulted. Not that he was there physically, but then again that was what got his own admirors fired up...

Truth being told, Ringo has a hard time holding anything against him. He did took that chance from him, makes sense he would be angry. Doesn't give him an excuse to start shit, but at least explains why he would.

Still, he can't help but harbor the hope that Pete is there out of his own volition, that he's actually enjoying the show, that he's maybe impressed by Ringo's drumming.

He, secretly, sincerely, hopes that Pete is there for him.

It's a silly and pointless wish, and Ringo's well aware of it yet he still holds on to it.

He gives his best performance, puts on his best smile and bobs his head more enthusiastically than usual, just to please Pete.

Man, he sure is pathetic. Still, in one ocassion he manages to lock eyes with him, and the lad sends him a nod and a half smile, and that's enough to keep Ringo going the rest of the night.

***

Is it time to panic? Probably.

Lord, he knew it was a bad idea to leave his usual spot, but he really wasn't expecting to be noticed quite so quickly.

Somewhere on the depths of his chest, he feels thoroughly pleased at the idea of Ringo smiling at *him*, just another lad in a multitude of crazed fans.

He shoves down that warm feeling and tries to make an escape, but it's so tightly packed that he can't even see the way out.

Lord, why did he thought this was a good idea?

As the beat keeps getting faster and faster, the guitars louder and John's voice raspier, Pete realizes he really has no way out.

The audience is enraptured, entranced by the music, they dance and sing and scream like posessed souls, and all he can do is stand there and gawk, just as fascinated.

He doesn't dance, but he does sway a little. He can see his drummer up there, oh so pleased with himself, it makes Pete want to wipe that smile off his face, either with a punch or a kiss.

There's adrenaline and fear and shame and excitement all running through his veins, and as much as he wants to pull his usual backdoor escape, he remains glued to his spot until the show is over.

He barely even notices when they're done, the crowd around him keeps its energy, and they all push and pull and cry when they realize their musicians are coming down.

Pete spots them quickly as they mix and mingle with the people, and only then does his mind catch up with his body, enough for him to try and make a run.

That attempt is quickly stiffled by a bejewelled hand on his shoulder, and he swears he can feel his soul drop to his feet before even turning to face his drummer.