With A Little Help From My Friends Chp. 4

The older man opened up the door, pondering in his head what the weird stares were about.  No one had ever looked at him like that, especially not George. After all, they were only friends.... weren't they?
George followed him quietly inside, trying his best to keep the smile he could feel building up on his lips. As much as the stare was bugging him, it also gave him a sick sense of amusement. He turned to the ill man in front of him and said, "What should I do first?"
Ringo yawned rather loudly and said in a slurred voice, "I don't know about you, but I'm getting more sleep." He threw his jacket onto the couch and stumbled slowly upstairs. George could only assume to do the same.
He leaned against the doorway, watching as his friend flopped onto his back on the bed. "You really, really aren't looking good." George commented nervously.
"Really? I haven't noticed." Ringo pushed himself up, glaring a bit at George.
George rolled his eyes, shaking his head. His head drifted to the side, catching a few papers scattered on a desk. He frowned a bit and walked over to look at them. "You didn't mention you did some more of these," he said, referring to the photo grams on the desk.
Ringo raised his eyebrows and rubbed his face. "Yeah, I get bored too. While you and John are writing guitar, or Paul and John are writing the songs, I'm at home, doing photo grams."
George turned to look at him. "I don't get to write songs either." he pointed out, stung a bit by his fair criticism.
"You're good at something." Ringo shot back. He pulled himself up so he was propped up on the pillows, watching him.
"So are you." George said, trying to convince him.
"Nah. I'm a second-hand drummer." Ringo looked around his room. No scattered papers of drawings or poetry like John. No paintings like Paul. No drawings or guitars like George. Just an average, organized space with photos.
George sat next to him on the bed. "Look, you aren't a second-hand drummer. You were good enough to make it into what right now is the biggest band on the charts, and you're an amazing photographer." A quick smile flickered across his lips at another thought. "You're also way too good at cards."
Ringo grinned. "Cards? There's a skill to be praised."
George looked around again. "I don't get why you think so low of yourself. I mean, you've found an amazing profession, some good friends, and what you're best at."
Ringo let his gaze drift sideways towards the open window, away from George's curious eyes. He saw people walking outside, each with their own unique style. Each with their own talent. George had a point. Why did he think so low of himself?
"I don't know," he whispered, turning back towards him. "Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?"
"Sure." George edged a bit closer, anxious now.
"You can't tell John or Paul," Ringo warned, leaning towards him. "Or anyone else."
George raised an eyebrow, but nodded.
"I always thought me dad left 'cause of me," Ringo admitted. "I mean, everything was perfect for them. Had a house, had each other...." His thoughts drifted back to photos his mom had shown him. Before. "But then I came along, and everything fell apart." He rubbed his face again, closing his eyes.
George blinked, surprised. He shook his shoulder gently, trying to get his attention. "I had two brothers that hated me," he said. "At least your parents loved you."
"So did yours." Ringo said, looking at him.
George rubbed his hair, feeling awkward. "Well....they did. But my brothers didn't." He managed a weak smile. "We both had rough childhoods. But look what can come of them. One hell of a drummer and a good guitarist."
Ringo chuckled again, but he didn't sound happy. George only did what he knew: he pulled him in for a close hug. "I'm sorry you feel like that, mate." he said.
Ringo hugged him back, though awkwardly. "Thanks."