Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. They all basically own themselves.

(George P.O.V.)

Hamburg, Germany. August 14, 1962. 11:30 PM UTC. The pitch-black sky brought rain and humidity with it along with the mighty nasty northern wind. Street lamps were lit like candles and fancy cars were parked outside different buildings: caverns, clubs, the lot. I could feel the comb running through my hair, hear the roars of laughter and monsoons of applause, taste the perspiration that ran from my forehead. I could remember that night as if it were yesterday. It was an extraordinary night. It was a night to remember. It was the night I met him.

The Cavern Club was busy that night, it's neon sign blaring for all to see outside. John, Paul, and Stu were tuning their guitars or basses, and Pete was setting up the drums, leaving me alone. I was not quite twenty-one yet, and so I slouched out of sight like a loner at the bar, my Gretsch guitar at my side. Hopefully, I would not attract the attention of a man looking for a bar-fight. After all, I had the reputation for being the "quiet Beatle" and wished to live up to it. All of a sudden, I was snapped out of my thoughts when I heard a man announcing in both English and German,

"Ladies and gentlemen, without any further hesitations, I give you our next act of the night! Give it up for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes!" The crowd, including me, clapped. The curtains opened, revealing a man with blond hair, brown eyes, and a blue suit. He had a good voice and was rather tall for his age, but I wasn't focusing upon him. I found my eyes drifting over to the drummer of the group, the sole beat of the band. My jaw dropped immediately.

He had chocolate brown hair with a grey streak in it styled in a teddy-boy quiff, twin cobalt lakes of eyes that one could drown in by gazing upon, a dopey but handsome nose, a sad smile formed with his plump pouty lips, and shiny rings on his fingers. He was rather short for his age, it seemed, but it did not matter. I also could not help but notice that he was wearing a pink suit and that he looked rather...fit. The amount of gorgeousness radiating from that man made me question my old sexuality. Had I continued to like girls, I would never have known what true beauty was.

A few years ago, I had been dating a nice bird named Katherine. That was before Bob Dylan came into my life. Yes, I developed a bit of a crush on him, but I didn't know what it was at the time. All I knew was that he was an amazing man and his music was quite inspiring. When I found out that I was attracted to him, however, I was forced to come out to my parents, my friends, and my girlfriend. Oddly enough, they were all fine with it, but they warned me to be careful in England because of its "zero tolerance of queers" policy. Eventually my crush receded, but my homosexuality was still a part of me. Never again would I pay any heed to a bird, let alone her chest.

Nobody else paid any attention to the drummer, and I felt slightly irritated by their ignorance. If it weren't for the drummer, the band would be nothing. For a minute, I wondered if our band was nothing because of how extremely untalented Pete was. He could not drum for his life, it seemed. I often thought bitterly that he should have become a teacher, not a drummer. Pete. Ugh. Even when I tried, I could not stop the bile from crawling up my throat at the mention of his name. Not only was he a terrible drummer, he was also terrible-looking and he had a terrible personality on top of it all. I hated his arrogance and how he often pretended to be sick come band practice. I didn't care if he and John were pals: I wanted him out.

My Pete-bashing thoughts were quelled when the man that announced the previous band's arrival said that it was "Starr Time".

" 'Starr Time'? Now, what in blazes is that?" I wondered out loud to myself. Just then, I saw that drummer from Rory Storm's band walk up front. He had a shy smile on his face and I could see that he was hesitant to be the center of attention. His face looked crimson under the large overhead light which was cute, I might add.

"Um...hi," he greeted a little nervously. Hi. That was the only word he had to say to send a shiver down my spine, to make electricity course through my veins, to reduce me to nothing but a melted heart-shaped puddle. HI. Bloody hell: his voice was drop-dead sexy. That wasn't even the best part, though. It was when I figured out that "Starr Time" consisted of that drummer singing "Boys" by the Shirelles. I laughed out loud, but not out of mockery. I laughed because that man was so talented!

"I been told when a boy kiss a girl,

Take a trip around the world,

Hey, hey! Hey, hey! Hey, hey!

Yeah, she says you do!"

"No freaking way! Oh my God!" I exclaimed, though nobody heard me. His baritone was incredible. I wished he could sing all night.

"My girl says when I kiss her lips,

Gets a thrill through her fingertips,

Hey, hey! Hey, hey! Hey, hey!

Yeah, she says you do!"

I knew that was just a song lyric, but I could not help but wonder if this man had a girlfriend. After all, I figured, who WOULDN'T want that attractive man for themselves?

"Well, I talk about boys!

Don't you know I mean boys!

Well, I talk about boys, now!

Ahhhh, boys!

Well, I talk about boys, now!

What a bundle of joy!"

Unfortunately, the song ended and that was the end of "Starr Time", as well as Rory Storm and the Hurricanes's gig. Everybody seemed disappointed, but they cheered up when the next band played. Meanwhile, I looked around to see if I could find that drummer and silently check him out for the rest of the evening. A hand clapped on my shoulder from behind me, causing me to jump.

"Whoops! Sorry, son! I didn't mean to scare ye," a voice chuckled. I frowned.

"I wasn't scared, mister," I declared stubbornly on behalf of my manly pride. When I turned around and saw who it was, however, every other word I had been planning to say left my mouth and escaped from my memory. It was that drummer! "Gosh, sir! I do apologize! Won't you sit down?" I blubbered, my face growing pink all the way to my ears.

The man chuckled. "Well, of course!" He sat down beside me and ordered a drink since he was obviously over the age of twenty-one. He noticed my tensed and nervous body language. "Hey, relax, man! It's okay, I don't bite! ...Not unless you're a sandwich!" he joked, trying to break the ice.

"Heh, heh, heh, heh, yeah," I chuckled sheepishly. I could feel my conscience beginning to lecture me. It said, "George, you're a bloody idiot!" The man eyed me with what seemed to be concern.

"Are you sure? Hey, I can give the best massages in all of Liverpool," he said. My eyes widened in astonishment. He was from Liverpool too?

"N-no thank you, I'm good," I managed to choke out. The man chuckled once again.

"You're a mighty fine lad. What's your name, son?"

"I'm George. You?"

"I'm Ringo. Pleasure to meet you, George." He shook my hand and I reveled in its touch.

"Thanks. Uh...you too!"

Once I got past my "Idiot Phase", I was able to have an actual conversation with Ringo. I found out that we had lots in common and that his life story was very interesting. Whenever he told a joke or said anything even remotely funny, I would giggle in a rather feminine way before catching myself and stopping. I felt like I could spend the rest of my life talking to Ringo, but then it was time for the band I was in to play. I was just about to go onstage when I saw that blond-haired man from earlier walking up to us.

"H-H-Hi, R-Ritchie," he stammered.

"Hiya, handsome!" Ringo teased. Much to my bewilderment, they kissed. Ringo turned to me. "Ah, George, I almost forgot! This is my boyfriend, Rory. Ro, this is my new friend George." Rory looked at me, a fake smile on his face that failed to conceal the dislike in his icy brown orbs.

"P-P-P-Pleasure," he spat, as if the very sight of me made him want to dry-heave that one word.

"Likewise," I replied, adopting that exact same tone with which he spoke. Something told me already that I did not like this guy and that his behavior was of utter suspicion to me. We stared into each other's souls, casting threatening bolts of lightning with our eyes and momentarily forgetting that a very uncomfortable Ringo was sweating and scratching his head.

"H-Hey, w-w-wanker! D-Don't y-y-you h-h-h-have a-a b-b-band t-to p-p-p-play f-f-for?! O-Or a-a-are y-you j-j-just a-an a-a-a-amateur?!" Rory whispered so that only we could hear. I narrowed my eyes at him, my face flustered red with rage.

"Call me an amateur, will you?! You dirty gormless git!" I stomped off to the stage where John, Paul, Stu, and Pete were. By golly, I would show him!