AN: Look who decided to update.
Paul pushed Ringo up the stairs, urging him to walk with him. One arm was around Ringo's waist and the other held onto the arm draped around his neck.
"Come on," Paul encouraged. "We're almost there. Few more steps. Come on."
Ringo mumbled gibberish in his heavy scouse accent.
"I don't speak zombie," Paul said.
He panted. Ringo was a lot heavier than he looked. He was a dead, drunk weight on Paul's side, hanging there nearly unconscious. His tiny body apparently carried more weight than it appeared.
"C'mon, Ritchie just make it to the bed now."
He pushed the bedroom door open with his foot and wrestled Ringo to the bed. His body only moved when Paul was manhandling his limbs. Ringo made a little gagging sound deep in his throat and his head lolled to the side as if he were trying to lean over the side of the bed.
"Christ. Don't throw up yet," Paul said, shoving Ringo's head over the side of the bed for him.
He ran to the bathroom.
"Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up."
Paul grabbed the small trash bin and ran back through the hall in record time. The couple of years spent being chased by girls paid off, and a few seconds later he threw himself to the ground by Ringo's head.
"Don't throw up. God, please, don't."
He slid the bin under Ringo's head. The older man was unresponsive, completely passed out.
"Thank god," Paul breathed.
He leaned against the bed, looking to Ringo. His sandy moptop fell over his face, covering his open mouth and flushed cheeks. A little drool spilled from his mouth accompanied by soft snoring.
Paul laughed. George and John were still downstairs, getting as wasted as Ringo. If they wanted to do this again, they would have to do it at someone else's house. Paul wasn't putting up cleaning up three drunk people again.
"I hate you lot."
He reached out and stroked a lock of Ringo's hair out of his eyes. It fell right back.
"I bet George and John are in your state by now," Paul said, looking to the drummer. "They can stay down there. Carrying you up was enough. If they wanted to get that smashed, they should have gotten comfortable first. I'm not taking care of you lads anymore…"
Ringo didn't answer, as expected. Paul slid his hand over his forehead. He ran his fingers through the soft locks and brushed them back from his face.
"But here you are all cute," Paul (and his own alcohol consumption) said. "I'd take care of you."
He dropped his hand in his lap. He stared at the ceiling. The bland white paint seemed to spin, making him dizzy and forcing him to keep a hand on the trash can initially meant for Ringo.
"I'm too drunk," he mumbled.
He considered crawling into bed and curling up with Ringo, but then his eyes were closing, and his muscles weren't working. He tried lifting himself off the floor. He'd count to 10 and would get up.
1, 2, 3
He could hear Ringo's breathing. It was soothing. Like waves crashing against a shore. Like the water of the river back home being forced against the cement barriers at the docks.
4, 5, 6
He could faintly hear George and John downstairs. Their chatter made the house feel full. It took up space - not suffocating, but like an embrace.
7, 8, 9
He briefly considered calling Cynthia or making John do so. She probably knew what they were all up to. She had seen their mischievous smirks before they left for Paul's home. They had watched how she rolled her eyes, baby on her hip, and told them to shoo.
John left after pressing two kisses on two cheeks.
10
Paul was drooling, fast asleep.