(The first Beatles fanfic I ever wrote, originally published on Tumblr. A review would make my day! I'll update my other story very soon.)

The cold air nibbled like rats. A half-hearted breeze blew gently on the man's face. He sat on the edge looking, watching, staring into the murky depths of the water below. The choppy waves were black as the night sky.

Long, slender figers tugged at the dew-slick grass beneath his palms. The other held a cigarette loosely. As the smoke rose lazily into the evening air his eyes clouded over. Ringo tucked away the bottle of whiskey into his coat pocket.

With a slow drag, he let his eyes drift upwards with the smoke and study the glinting lights dotted like freckles in the inky blackness of midnight. The moon hung low and wide, its shimmer mirrored in the ocean crashing beneath his feet like the cymbals on the drums he would play.

It was a tired sigh- not only tired from the sleepless nights spent in anguish alone in his flat, but a sigh tired of life itself- and it cut through his bones like a razor-edged knife and stung with the wind that blew jaded, whipping lightly at his face. Ringo pulled out the bottle and unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers.

"Drinking ain't gonna solve your problems, Richie."

The bottle, pressed hesitently to his plump, quivering lips, was placed on the grass beside him. Ringo didn't want to turn and see his face. He didn't want to listen.

Footsteps. We've been worried about you,"

That was rich, Ringo thought and scoffed. It was a laugh cold and quiet. A laugh filled with pain.

"Fuckin' 'ell, Ringo, will you just listen for two ticks?" The voice, soft as the breeze that tickled his skin and blew his russet hair in front of his icy eyes, had a slightly biting tone, but a caring one none the less.

Ringo decided to co-operate. "Fine." The word had an edge as sharp as the rocks below.

After a moment filled with silence, only the whisper of the wind and rolling waves speaking for them, the man sat beside Ringo on the cliff.

"Ringo," Paul started. His mouth was a firm line of sobriety, and his eyes held the sombreness of a thousand grievings. He looked at Ringo but the drummer stared straight ahead.

He shook his head. "I can't apologise enough for what I did,"

Still, Ringo said nothing. He only smoked his cigarette silently.

"You came to me in confidence, and I let you down,"

The words, it seemed to Paul, fell upon deaf ears. The older man, with his sad, sapphire eyes and his earnest expression, cut the bassist like a knife with his quietness.

"I wish I felt the same, Ringo-"

"No you don't,"

Paul's lips closed in surprise. Richard had a gruff voice, though it was meek at the same time. He blew the last puff of smoke and put out the cigarette, rubbing the burning cherry on the slick grass and flicking it off into the water below. His ringed hands pressed together lightly on his lap.

"You don't, Paul," he said once again, "you like your birds. You're not a queer."

For the first time in his life, Paul didn't have a response.

"I…" he started, but his voice failed him.

Ringo looked out, past the rocks and the sea, staring at the dark clouds glinting silver from the moonlight.

"I shouldn't have told you," the drummer uncapped the whiskey beside him and held it up to his lips, "what was I thinking?"

He took a gulp and smirked, but it was still a melancholy act in Paul's eyes.

"Imagine it; Paul McCartney, queer. Fuck, I wouldn't even believe it me'self."

Paul still had nothing to say, but Ringo set the bottle down again and his dismal voice floated away with the breeze.

"But you ain't queer, are you Paul? You like your birds. I should have known. Bit thick of me to think otherwise."

Ringo finally looked at Paul, blue orbs that rippled like the water below, but with pain, gazing into the soft hazel ones belonging to the younger man. He had a wisp of a sad smile on the corners of his lips, though the smile didn't reach his eyes.

However, it was Paul who spoke, "I'm sorry, Richard."

Ringo looked back to the sky. "I'm the one who should be sayin' sorry, Paul."

"Huh? Why's that?"

"I made it like this. I got these feelings for you, I knew it was wrong, and I told you. Of course you wouldn't feel the same. It was only right for you to tell the lads." Ringo said. Paul shook his head with a frown.

"Stop being so bloody passive, you old sod. It's my fault. I'm the reason you're out here all on your own, drinkin'. You must be freezing out here."

Ringo turned his head. The wind ruffled his mop-top so Paul could see those brilliant, blue eyes bright with compassion but filled deep with a sadness the bassist couldn't describe.

"Well I got you for company now, don't I?"

"Poor you,"

"Push off,"

Silence. Whether it was comfortable or not, Paul didn't know but he felt a little closer to the drummer. He didn't mean to upset Ringo by telling John, who ultimately spilt it to George. He just couldn't understand why the short Beatle had told him he loved him.

Love? Ringo loved Paul?

It didn't make any sense. Ringo had always been a hit with the girls. He always got the birds up to his room when they went out to parties. Ringo couldn't love Paul. Could he?

Paul, like an itch he needed to satisfy, blurted it out before he could stop. "Why do you love me?"

Ringo turned his head to face the bassist. "Pardon?"

Paul felt his cheeks flush. He felt rather awkward asking the question, but he had to know. "Why do you love me, Ringo? You told me you loved me. Why?"

The drummer felt butterflies shoot about in his stomach. "Well…

"You have this way about you. You get all excited when you think of somethin' new to write, I see it in your eyes; all this passion. And this smile that I can't help smile at me'self. And the way you play your bass like you're… I don't know, like you're caressing it, like it's a lover or somethin'. And your laugh, Paul." Ringo tilted his head back and closed his eyes, he wore a grin as big as the Chesire Cat. "Your laugh is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."

Ringo chuckled. "I don't know why I love you, Paul, I just do. I sound like a bird, don't I?"

Paul looked at Ringo.

"You love me?" The younger man asked.

Those blue eyes sparkled. "Unfortunately," he said and turned his head once again. "And it's unfortunate I'll never be able to kiss those lips of yours, Paulie."

"Fuck, why am I doing this?" Paul muttered to himself, making the drummer turn in his direction.

Paul had Ringo's face in his hands, quick and tight, and he stared into the blue eyes shocked and entranced all at once. Ringo gasped in surprise as Paul leaned in and embraced the drummer in a kiss, hesitant at first but melting into passion a few seconds after. To Ringo it felt like a million years, and he never wanted it to end.

The younger man pulled away, much to Ringo's despair. His lips were wet and plump, eyes doe and bright. He looked gorgeous.

They stared at each other for a few moments, and Paul had to remind himself to blink, to breathe. He had just kissed Ringo… and it had felt good.

"Come on," the bassist said, getting up but never once breaking his eyes from Ringo's, "let's go. It's fucking freezing out here."

He walked away, pulling his coat around his waist. Ringo watched him and stood. He took one last look out over the cliff and smiled to himself, before walking away.