Hamburg

7. Same Night, Different Story

George's hands trembled as he felt himself sobering up. He half wished he could remain inebriated, though not entirely because he took some satisfaction in hearing Ringo hum into his ear; George fitted like Cinderella's glass shoe inside Ringo's embrace. It felt like a Rubik's Cube being twisted into position, except all the colours were a reflection of the world around, mirrors. George could catch a glimpse of himself in this puzzle. This game. In Ringo's arms.

"George," said Ringo. "Can I take you somewhere?"

"Yes," George said, shyly but without hesitation. "Anywhere."

Their arms slid and brushed against each other, as they proceeded to walk, and George felt himself smile. He carefully took his time to slide a finger or two into Ringo's hand. Ringo laughed and pulled away, "If anyone sees this-"

"No one is here," George said, looking around frantically.

"I didn't think you were..." Ringo said, looking at their shadows on the pavement. "That way inclined."

George laughed, "What can I say!" He sped up and began walking backwards while facing Ringo, "I'm a rounded young man."

Ringo laughed and shook his head. He moved in closer and crossed one arm over George's shoulders, pulling him as close as possible. They continued down the pathway in silence. A crowd of bushes and small trees began to surround them. George tangled his fingers with Ringo's filling with strange anticipation. Ringo laughed a little, lack of his words made him feel funny. He always had something to say. But right then, at that very moment, the jar was empty.

"You're not gonna kill me, are you?" George said.

"Me?" Ringo laughed. "Sure, if I manage to live that long!"

"Why won't you?"

"Live?"

"Yeah,"

"Well," Ringo said. "You're killing me, you are, Harrison."

"Me?" George said. "How?"

Ringo laughed and shrugged. He knew his face was turning a sick shade of red. He sighed as he saw, a few metres away, the spot he had been looking for. A strange abandoned gateway, leading off to an old, limestone church. Weeds had encircled the whole place and blocked off the rusty rivets on the gate.

"Queer little place, isn't it," said George.

"Very funny," Ringo slipped his hand off George's in a mock-disgusted gesture.

George shuffled through the weeds and put a hand on on of the grills on the gate. He looked past them and stared into the lights shimmering out of the colourful stained gothic windows. He turned around to look at Ringo, who was picking white daisies, and said, "Have you ever been to the Strawberry Fields cemetery?"

"In Liverpool?" Ringo asked, distracted with the plants in his hands.

"No, in West Berlin,"

"Alright alright," Ringo said, pushing a pair of flowers into George's thick hair. They fell out so he picked another one and tried tucking it behind George's ear; it stayed. George shook his head vigorously to challenge him but the daisy remained unmoved. Ringo laughed, clapping his hands together.

George cursed, smiling all the while, and caught Ringo's eyes; they became more and more fascinating each time he peered into them. He felt his smile fade and, slowly, so did Ringo's. They didn't know why but they both felt it. It was something making their stomachs churn, some kind of tension, but something truly natural and exciting. The start of something. A kind of magnetism. A chemistry experiment.

They lured each other in and, next thing they knew, the blue eyed young man was against the gate, pushing him. George's hands wrapped around the other's shoulders and hair, trying to grasp a sense of reality. A glimpse of himself. Ringo's hands slid down his jacket and clutching his dress shirt in a fistful. It was surreal to say the least but something was happening and it was dangerous.

But they couldn't help it.

They had never felt any more themselves.