all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

3- Ringo Starr

It was a far colder night than it usually was, and that fact pretty much incapacitated the both of us from doing much other than watching the telly in a jumble of warm clothes and numerous blankets on the living room couch.

Doctor Zhivago flitted on the screen, the aura pulsating in the room ever so serene as we'd turned the lights down low, so that the whirring wind outside seemed to be background music for the movie we watched in semi-darkness.

Ringo had insisted that we share the same blanket, for reasons unknown---but seemed pretty apparent as he made it clear he wanted to snuggle into my side, an arm wrapped around my shoulder securely as though I would be running away anywhere (I wouldn't dream of it though).

The hand that rested on my shoulder was carressing the skin there, back and forth, just as rhythmically as he would play the drums, never a beat out of place, never messing up the timing. It was how Ringo himself liked to act, not just while drumming.

The sweetness of the very action caused me to lean backwards against his touch, accidentally squeezing his hand for a moment, which produced a sharp inhale from my fiancé, who managed a small curse under his breath.

Quickly looking back at him, a grimace had spread on his normally jovial countenance, and I instantly knew that worrying without taking action wouldn't get me anywhere. So, at that, I made a grab for his hand, trying my best not to hurt him in the process.

I stifled some chosen profanties as I studied his usually-perfect hands. Both, as a matter of fact, had crossed the line of simply being calloused, and had angry red blisters covering his palms and even the skin of his fingers.

Asking where they'd come from would be foolish, because anyone could add it up and realize that a drummer could be very prone to hand injuries. But this was far too much to be normal; even for drummer standards.

"How?" I asked in a quiet voice, half-paralyzed by shock, half-horrified.

"Someone took me drumsticks before the show," he winced at the memory, half-closing his azure eyes as though his drumsticks being stolen was more horrifying of a concept than having blistered fingers, "I had to make do with a pair found in the studio, and they were far too rough," he shook his head, "Bet they never heard o' sandpaper to soften wood up and shape it properly."

Grimacing, I patted his knee, "Wait here, Richie," and turned off the TV that now seemed most irrelevant, then hopped off to the bathroom as quickly as I could without freezing my toes off.

Grabbing the first aid for probably the first time since we moved in together two years ago, I made my way back to him, feeling absolutely terrible as I saw him unable to even pat down his tousled brown hair down, gritting his teeth as he tried to. I wondered how he'd managed to put up a front the entire day without screaming bloody murder.

Soundlessly, I sat down beside him, zipping open the first aid bag. As carefully as humanly possible, I held the back of his hand in my palm, and slowly grabbed the ointment with my other hand.

"This won't hurt except the opened blisters, but the bandages will hurt your entire hand," I warned him, whereas he bit his pink lips and nodded understandingly.

I began to lather the disgusting yellow cream on his palm as cautiously as I could, not wanting to cause the poor man any more pain. That first step was alright, but as soon as I took out the bandage from the red box, his earnest eyes twitched uncomfortably, and a miniscule part of me regretted telling him it would hurt beforehand.

As I wrapped it around his hand, he seemed to relax, before a hiss sounded as I tightened the elastic bandage, practically squeezing every blister (which really was exactly the point). The expression on his face sent pangs of pain that coursed through my body, torturing me as I bit back yelling at my own self.

"I'm sorry darling," I apologetically simpered, strapping it in place to fasten it together, before taking his hand gently in mine, leaving almost-non-existent kisses on his fingertips.

Ringo's now-bandaged hands slowly grabbed my face, cupping my jaw in his huge hands as his eyes bored on.

Ah, his eyes. Those infinite pools of ultramarine that sparkled onwards shared his kindly spirit with mine, wordlessly and without uttering a sound. Pretty lashes left shadows underneath on his cheeks, and crow's feet formed around his ocean eyes---because my Richie always smiled so ethereally with his eyes as well.

"Thank you," he whispered, kaleidoscope eyes fluttering shut momentarily to leave the flutter of a kiss on my lips, his nose nudging my skin softly, leaving me numb with adoration, "I love you."

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