Ringo Starr Smuts & Maybe Sometimes a Little Fluff

All You Need Is Love (request)

It was a typical weekend.

I was spending the day with my best friend Ringo, as I often did. Today I was going to help him with his spring cleaning that desperately needed to be done. It might sound weird, but I actually loved doing stuff like that for him. Ringo loathed cleaning, and any chore for that matter, so I was always there to come to his rescue.

I've known Ringo for a very large part my life. Since we were about ten years-old we've been utterly inseparable. We've always done everything together, from grocery shopping to picking out each other's clothes. We spent many nights just chatting endlessly about our childhoods and our dreams, and we even shared our first kiss together when we were thirteen. Nothing ever evolved from that, but it was nice to share a special moment like that with someone I trusted.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alright I'm here, I've got the bleach spray, old rags, and lots of gloves and sponges." I ran through the list that I'd made up in my head, earning a laugh from Ringo right away.

"Always prepared ain't ye!" He giggled. I dropped the box of supplies on the table by his front door and rushed over to him for a hug.

"Thanks again for offering your help today. You know how much I hate this kind of thing!"

I smile and back away, scanning around the room to see what needed to be done.

"So what should we do first?" I ask.

"I dunno, I was thinking we could go through me closet? It's got the most junk..." he says, walking over to his bedroom. I follow close behind.

"Oof, yeah. Let's get this over with!" I laugh, crouching down to look at a box that was nestled in the corner labeled "pictures."

"Ooooh, pictures!" I yelp, pulling the box forward and lifting it onto the bed. I blow off the film of dust that covered it and opened it up to have a peek.

"Eek! Look at you!" I shout like a little girl, slipping a photo of Ringo in a hospital gown between my fingers. He must've been about five in the photograph.

"Yeah, yeah!" He says, plopping himself down at the edge of the bed. He seems a bit peeved that I found the photo.

"Hey... what's the matter?" I ask, moving the box onto the ground and laying beside him.

"Nothing. Just thinking." He mumbles, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it every time it came down.

"About what?" I pry, curious about what has my friend in a funk.

"Just... never mind." He starts opening up, then stops abruptly as if he's embarrassed.

"Ringo you can tell me anything? Is it about that photo?" I ask him, placing a hand lovingly on his shoulder.

"It's just a bit crazy how often I was sick as a boy, y'know?" He begins.

"Oh..." I say softly, staring at the ceiling fan and watching it whirr around as he speaks.

"I came close to me death so many times and all I got to show for it are these grotty scars."

I can tell he's really self-conscious. This has always been an off-limits topic between us.  He's extremely ashamed of his scars, and it's always prevented him from taking his shirt off and doing anything that requires him to show his stomach. It made me very sad to think that he hated anything about himself.

"Rings, you should be proud of those scars. They're a symbol of strength!" I try to reassure him, but it fails. He's still staring somberly at that tennis ball as he plays catch with it by himself.