A/N: Just to clarify, this story isn't based off of anything that actually happened to the Beatles while on tour. This isn't historically accurate whatsoever, it's just for fun. Enjoy!
It was not often that George Harrison didn't protest when he wound up sandwiched between John and Paul in the backseat, Ringo noticed as the car pulled away from the airport, leaving behind a mob of screaming fans. The lead guitarist loved sightseeing, but the band was rarely allowed to leave their hotel rooms, so George had to get his fill of the cities they toured from the windows of limousines and trains.
As Mal Evans maneuvered the car slowly through the throngs of teenage girls pressing in on all sides, Ritchie found himself studying his youngest companion intently. George appeared to be sleeping, or at least trying to, despite the roar of the crowd surrounding them. Of this, John and Paul took no notice. They were far too busy practicing their perfect camera grins for the hysterical fans clawing at the car as the Beatles tried to make their escape.
Slowly but surely, the crowds thinned out until they were finally driving at a steady pace through the streets of New York City. The band was in awe as they rolled past skyscrapers, elegant hotels, and theaters advertising films with bright flashing lights. Still, George remained motionless in the backseat. In fact, despite the commotion of the city surrounding the Beatles, the youngest band member actually appeared to be napping.
Touring was an incredibly taxing experience. The boys lived in a constant state of jet lag and exhaustion as they jetted around from state to state, country to country, overseas and back again. The Beatles had grown used to sleeping whenever and wherever they could, a few hours here on a flight, another few moments there between rehearsals or interviews. Life as a Beatle could really wear the boys down at times. Perhaps George was coming down with something. If so, it certainly wouldn't be the first time that one of them had played through illness and fatigue.
After a few more minutes of weaving through the metropolitan streets, the limousine slowed to a halt outside the world-renowned Carnegie Hall and was immediately engulfed by a swarm of hysterical teenage girls.
"Alright lads, we've got to get in rather quickly. No autographs or pictures, just a few quick hellos and then we have to start preparing for the show." Instructed Brian Epstein from the front passenger seat, turning around to face the band. "We're on a very tight schedule and-" The Beatles' manager stopped dead when he caught sight of George. "Is he asleep?"
Epstein's question prompted John and Paul to take notice of their friend slumbering between them.
"Blimey," John remarked, "Looks like 'e is."
"C'mon Geo." Paul murmured. "Rise and shine, we're 'ere now."
George's long eyelashes fluttered and the young musician moaned softly. He woke up rather sluggishly despite the pandemonium occurring just outside the car.
"Right, George, as I was saying, just a few smiles for the crowd and then straight in. We've got a very busy day ahead of us." Eppy reiterated.
And then the doors were open, and the Beatles stepped out of the car, flashing their perfect camera grins and waving to the enthusiastic fans pressing against the police-erected barriers.
To the crowds, George outwardly appeared as chipper and enthusiastic as his fellow bandmates, but in truth the young star wasn't feeling quite well. The Beatles had been woken at the crack of dawn to board a flight from Heathrow to JFK, and they were expected to endure the day without rest until after their concert that evening.
Flying was something that had always made George nervous and queasy, but he'd been nauseous and without appetite since he'd woken up that morning. It was just his luck to come down with some sort of virus right before a such a significant performance. Nonetheless, he'd just have to muddle through.
Upon entering the grand music hall, the group could see their instruments, amplifiers and other equipment set up on stage as it would be for their performance that night. A few of the stage technicians could be seen milling about on stage and in the aisles, but without an audience to fill the seats, the theater seemed cavernously empty.
"Come 'ead lads." Mal signaled for the band to follow him down onto the stage. Like ducklings following their mother, John, Paul, George and Ringo did as they were told. The stage had been outfitted with risers of varying height for the boys to stand on during their performance. Ringo's drum kit was set up on the tallest one, closest to the back of the stage, and the other three Beatles had shorter ones towards the front, nearer to the audience. The boys immediately went to go tune up their instruments for rehearsal.
"Now, we're going to do a full run-through of tonight's setlist. You have to have this down perfectly. We can't afford to make any mistakes tonight." Brian always became fussy and uptight before a big performance. Epstein could push the band at times, but he did want the best for them. They were all incredibly talented, but Brian knew they wouldn't rehearse without a fair bit of nagging on his part. There was far too much to see and do in the city, and it could be difficult to focus on work.
"Ah, Brian, come on!" John groused. "We're in New York City! There are thousands of things we could do today! We've played hundreds of shows before, we'll be fine!"
"John, no." Mal stepped in before Brian could become more cross. "This kind of audience is unprecedented. We need to be at the absolute top of our game tonight."
The lead guitarist sighed angrily and rolled his eyes. Thankfully, John didn't seem to think it worth it to continue arguing, and the run-through went along without any further trouble.
Later, as the band ducked out of the back exit and into the car waiting, Ringo noticed George lingering at the back of the group. The young lead guitarist looked pale and dreadfully exhausted, so the drummer slowed his pace enough for George to catch up with him.
"Y'okay there, Geo?" Ritchie asked, making sure the others were out of earshot. "Ye seemed a bit off back there…"
"I'm alright, Rings," The younger Beatle assured his friend with a weak smile. "M' still just jet lagged, I guess…"
"Yeah, still pretty tired meself." The drummer greed with a kind smile. "Maybe ye can catch a quick rest at the hotel." He offered helpfully as the two clambered into the back seat.
…
By the time the Beatles and their entourage had reached their hotel room, nearly everyone was aware that George was feeling poorly. Brian remained oblivious, as he often was when he became immersed in his managerial duties, but the other boys were growing rather concerned about their youngest mate, much to George's dismay. He didn't feel at all well, and he just wanted everyone to let him suffer in peace.
Paul was particularly annoying in that respect. The bassist's fierce determination to pry information from the lead guitarist was downright infuriating. He was twenty-one years old for Christ's sake, George certainly didn't need Paul to take care of him!
Truth be told, George was also very afraid of letting his mates down; tonight was far too important for him to be causing trouble.
"Geo, we're gonna call for room service. What d'ye want?" Paul's voice brought George back to reality with a start.
"M' not hungry…" The lead guitarist muttered irritably, burrowing deeper into his seat on the corner of the sofa.
Now Paul was extremely concerned. George Harrison refusing to eat was a very bad sign. Despite the Beatle's rather scrawny appearance, the lead guitarist had a reputation for being a bottomless pit of hunger, often going so far as to help himself to whatever was left on his friend's plates after a meal.
"Are ye feelin' alright, Georgie?" Paul asked gently for what felt like the billionth time that day. "It's okay if ye're not. No one's gonna be mad at ye if ye're feelin' ill…" The bassist added, hoping it might encourage his mate to be honest.
"I dunno… Think I'm comin' down with somethin'…" The young musician admitted at long last. "I really don't feel too good…"
"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" The older Beatle joked. "I'll go talk t' Brian, see what we can do for ye. I think Ritchie went to go get changed…" Paul trailed off, glancing around the room. "Want me ta see if Johnny'll come sit with ye?"
George nodded almost imperceptibly, and with that, Paul went off to get the rhythm guitarist. John was in one of the bedrooms, stretched out on top of the duvet with his nose in a book.
"Ey, Lennon." Paul greeted his friend, who looked up from his book in mild interest.
"What's new, Paulie?" John asked with a smirk, closing the book and rising from the bed.
"Bad news." McCartney stated. "Looks like Harrison's gettin' sick. I've got ta go talk t' Eppy, see what we can do for 'im."
"Shit…" John swore. "Brian's gonna throw a fit…"
"I know." Paul agreed with a sardonic eye-roll. "I told Georgie that ye'd sit with 'im while I deal with Epstein. Try and convince 'im t' get some rest, will ye?"
John nodded, and followed his younger bandmate out of the bedroom and into the living area. Paul continued into the other bedroom, where he found Brian angrily talking on the phone.
"Yes, I understand that there was another rehearsal, but I hope that you understand exactly who you're dealing with!" Epstein snapped. "I trust that you'll ensure that everything is returned to its original setup." He paused to listen for a moment. "No, leave the instruments backstage. They'll have to re-tune them now. Right, goodbye." Paul's manager concluded, slamming down the receiver.
"What is it now?!" Epstein snapped, running a hand through his close-cropped hair in exasperation.
"I- um, George's taken ill…" Paul said, anxiously wringing his hands. Epstein's expression softened immediately.
"Did he say what's the matter?"
"Just that 'e didn't feel well." Paul explained, "Said it just hit 'im a little while ago. John convinced him to try and catch a kip on the sofa but 'e says 'e can still play."
"I'll have to talk to the press then, and have George excused from the conference. He'll have to rest up if he still wants to play the show tonight." Brian sighed, "We can't afford to have him getting sick in front of all those reporters…" He added under his breath, reaching for the phone on the table beside him.
Walking into the next room and leaving Brian to deal with the press, Paul found George curled up on the couch with his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach. John was crouched at eye level with their youngest bandmate, checking George's temperature and coaxing him to tell the rhythm guitarist what was wrong.
"C'mon Georgie, yer runnin' a temp'rature; there's no use keepin' it a secret. We all know yer not feelin' well and if ye tell us we can 'ave ye feelin' bettah for the show tonight." John reasoned softly. Paul noted that John could very well have been comforting his infant son Julian.
"Me stomach hurts, and I feel sick…" George admitted after a moment, swallowing thickly.
"I've got just the thing." Ringo piped up, ever the mother hen. "Nice cuppa mint tea might help ye feel better." He said, heading for the tiny hotel kitchen.
"There now," John smiled, rising from the floor, "we'll 'ave ye up to snuff in no time. Now try and rest a bit." He finished, ruffling his mate's hair affectionately.
"Aw, how's the little one?" Paul quipped with a wry smirk, emerging from where he had been lingering near the doorway.
"Georgie Boy's got 'imself a tummy ache." John mock-pouted, never one to miss an opportunity for sarcasm. "But I think 'e'll be sorted out by showtime."
"Brian's tryin' to get 'im excused from the press conference now." Paul commented, gesturing to the room behind him.
John nodded agreeably, "Good, let 'im rest while 'e can."
Over the next hour, George was given a piece of toast and a cup of mint tea to help settle his upset stomach, while the rest of the band rushed about getting ready for their press conference. The lead guitarist really hadn't been hungry at all that day, but his mates wouldn't allow his to toss back a few aspirin on an empty stomach, lest it make him feel worse.
Watching everyone preparing for the conference had tied a knot of guilt in the George's chest, and it was growing tighter by the minute. His friends had been wonderfully accommodating, insisting that he put on his pajamas and rest comfortably until the show, but he still couldn't help kicking himself.
"Should've just sucked it up and gone to the conference…" George thought bitterly, wincing as he was struck briefly by a sharp wave of pain. He sighed, kneading his fingers irritably into his stomach to ease his discomfort.
Their manager was a bit reluctant to leave their youngest by himself in the hotel room, but Brian reasoned that it would be better to have security concentrated where the majority of the boys would be. Glancing down at his watch, he gave the order to head out, and three fourths of the Beatles filed out the door following their head of security. Before stepping out into the carpeted hallway, Brian turned on his heel so that he was facing the youngest Beatle, who was miserably curled up on the sofa underneath a blanket.
Epstein strode back over to him and fleetingly pressed his hand underneath George's sweat-dampened bangs. He wasn't quite burning up, but he was definitely feverish.
"George" The older man's voice took on a delicate and matronly tone, "please try and get some rest, don't just watch television. Do you want me to send for a doctor to come and have a look at you?"
"I don't need a doctah." George smirked weakly. "I'll rest Eppy; promise."
Epstein smiled encouragingly before closing the door behind him to join the rest of the band. Out in the hallway, the boys chattered amongst themselves while they waited for the elevator, and Brian rejoined them just in time.
"Ey, Ringo…" Paul murmured as the doors slid closed and the elevator lurched downward, "D'ye think Harrison'll be alright for the concert tonight?"
"Macca, it's George, remember?" The older Beatle grinned, "'e probably just overdid it at dinnertime again and didn't want t' tell anyone. Mark my words, he'll be right as rain by showtime."
Paul smirked briefly before directing his gaze to his shoes. The bassist knew that Ringo knew that George was getting sick, but he said nothing. The drummer was just doing his best to remain optimistic and to keep Paul from worrying. Ritchie also kept his anxious thoughts to himself as he futilely tried to push aside the nagging realization that overeating generally didn't result in a fever. Now that he was thinking about it, Ringo wasn't sure that he had seen George eat at all today… The drummer was beginning to feel extremely stupid for what he'd just said.
"Since when did you lot become so fuckin' depressed?" John broke the uneasy silence that had fallen over the group, making everyone jump.
"Just worried about Harrison, I guess…" Paul admitted.
"It's a big show tonight, all those celebrities." Ringo chimed in, "don't want him t' miss out…"
"He'll be just fine without the both of ye coddlin' 'im." The rhythm guitarist joked, "I swear, if ye were all half as nice ta me…"
Mal chuckled and rolled his eyes, "Play nice, Lennon."
As if on cue, the lift shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open, immediately exposing the boys to the blinding flash of hundreds of cameras and the roar of reporters all clamoring to have their questions heard.
"John, are you aware that Marilyn Monroe will be in the audience this evening?"
"Mr. Epstein, are you planning another film?"
"How does it feel to be playing at such a prestigious venue?"
"Paul, when will the band be releasing a new album?"
Mal quickly shoved his way in front of the boys and began to plow a path through the throngs of reporters and photographers to the stage at the front of the room. Like a well-oiled machine, the band took their customary places at their individual microphones. It seemed strange to be up on the platform, looking out over the sea of people with one of their members missing and Brian in his stead.
"All right, all right now if you could just settle down I'm sure we can get to all of your questions!" Epstein's clear, commanding voice rang out over the crowd, and the roar of voices died down to a low hum almost instantly.
"Mr. Epstein?" Called a young brunette reporter, "Mr. Epstein? Where is George Harrison?" she asked.
He'd been hoping that he would have a few minutes to formulate a more carefully-worded answer to that question which had been sure to come up, but Brian Epstein had learned long ago never to expect mercy from the paparazzi.
"Mr. Harrison isn't feeling very well at the moment." Immediately the crowd began buzzing with interest. "However, he has opted out of this conference in order to rest so that he might still be able to play the show tonight."
Once again a tidal wave of questions crashed over them.
"Exactly how ill is Mr. Harrison?"
"Is the rest of the tour in jeopardy?"
"What will the Beatles do without their rhythm guitarist tonight?"
Brian was on the verge of snapping at the audience, but thankfully John had decided it was time to jump in with some trademark Lennon wit.
"Settle down now, will ye?" John drawled, flashing a well-practiced camera grin. "Yes, it's true, poor little Georgie does have a bit of a tummy ache, but 'e's a tough lad." The rhythm guitarist chuckled, as did the audience. "I'm sure 'e'll pull through."
"Ye'd practically 'ave ta tie 'im down t' keep 'im offstage" Paul chimed in, earning more smiles from the reporters.
"What ye should be worried about is Paul keepin' 'is hands off Marilyn Monroe tonight!" Ringo joked, and the audience erupted in laughter.
With that, the tension in the room dissipated, and the boys began to banter among themselves and with the paparazzi until a friendly rapport of questions and answers had been established. Watching from the wings, it never ceased to amaze Mal just how quickly the boys could have their audience eating from their hands.
Up on the stage, Brian had allowed his thoughts to wander now that the danger of an angry mob no longer seemed present. He wondered how George was faring back in their suite, and what a setback tonight might mean for the rest of the tour. Epstein hoped their lead guitarist was feeling better, not just because a cancelled show would be absolute hell, but because he really did care about his boys the Beatles. True, they were grown and could take care of themselves, but Brian still found himself acting as a parent every now and again; and he liked to see them all safe and happy just as much as their own parents would.
Really, they were like his children in so many ways. He had watched them grow up from their skiffle days touring shady clubs in Hamburg to playing for the Queen herself on the Royal Variety Show. He watched them bicker, argue and make up, sometimes several times in one day. Brian had witnessed the despondency that had fallen over all of them when Ringo had to spend ten nights in hospital and Jimmie Nicol had replaced him on tour; and he had laughed along with them when they all collapsed into fits of giggles during those late-night recording sessions. Yes, they really were his boys. They squabbled and shouted and went to bed in a huff, then tickled each other awake the very next morning; and like a proud father, Brian had been there to witness it all firsthand.
"Mr. Epstein?" A voice jolted him back to reality. He found himself looking at the same young brunette reporter from earlier, the one who had first asked about George.
"-um, yes, sorry," Brian cleared his throat, "Could you repeat the question please miss?" The audience seemed to take little notice of his momentary lapse in composure, but he could see John, Paul and Ringo giving each other sidelong glances.
"Mr. Epstein, if indeed Mr. Harrison is too sick to play, when would concertgoers be informed of a cancelled show?" She asked kindly.
"Well, of course we would like to inform any fans of a cancelled concert as soon as possible in order to issue rain-check tickets…" Brian began carefully, "But we would also like to give George as much time as we can for him to decide if he feels up to playing tonight. A few extra moments rest could make all the difference." Epstein could see some of the audience members nodding thoughtfully, agreeing with his logic, and he knew he had answered correctly.
Quickly glancing down at his wristwatch, Brian noted that it was still a long time until he could wrap up the conference on the grounds of preparing for the show, and he found himself silently praying that the boys would fall back into one of their engaging chats with the press as his thoughts drifted back to their ailing lead guitarist.
…
Meanwhile, alone in their hotel suite, George had already made up his mind about playing the show. The thought of letting the rest of the band down was one he could not even bring himself to consider. He would just have to push through. After all it was just a bellyache… and John had recorded "Twist and Shout" with that awful sore throat…
Yes, he would be fine, he was absolutely sure of it. In fact, Ringo's mint tea had mostly assuaged the nausea George had been feeling nearly all day, and the aspirin had taken the edge off the dull, throbbing ache centered behind his navel. It had been decided; there was no way in hell that George Harrison would allow himself to be the weak link on a night such as this. Glancing at the clock on the wall, George noticed that it wouldn't be long until everyone else returned.
May as well get dressed… The young man sighed, swinging his legs off the couch and starting towards the bedroom he had been sharing with Ringo. Brian had been kind enough to leave his clothes for the show hanging on the back of the door. Slowly, gingerly George changed out of his pajamas and the grey suit that matched the ones Paul, John and Ringo were wearing for the press conference. Standing and moving, even for a short time was making him feel weak and dizzy, but he was determined to play the show with the rest of the band. Once he was dressed, he walked into the cramped bathroom to comb his sweat-dampened hair and splash some cold water on his flushed face.
He stopped to look in the full length mirror on the back of the door. George chuckled to himself; he didn't look half-bad for someone who was feeling pretty miserable. True, his stomach was still troubling him, but combing his hair had made him look considerably less haggard, and the cold water had helped to create the illusion of a healthy complexion.
As if on cue, the lead guitarist heard the front door open, followed by the noisy chatter of his bandmates. George supposed he was as ready to face the night as he would ever be.
"George, love?" Ringo called.
"In 'ere…" The younger man responded tiredly, steeling his will to face the night ahead. Taking one last glance in the mirror, George strode out into the living room to rejoin the rest of the band.
"You're dressed!" Brian commented as George appeared in the doorframe, raising his eyebrows in surprise. The musician's only reply was a half-hearted smirk.
"Think ye're up ta playin' tonight Geo? How's yer stomach?" John asked with unexpected tenderness.
"I'm fine, Johnny. Ye're not getting' rid o' me that easy." The lead guitarist smiled. "Ye'd 'ave ta kill me t' keep me from playin!" Pre-show jitters were beginning to take over, and George eagerly awaited the bursts of adrenaline he knew would soon follow; he was going to need all the energy he could muster.
"And ye're sure ye'll be alright? Ye don't want ta see a doctah?" John questioned again in all seriousness, pressing his hand to George's cheek to gauge his temperature. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be burning up any longer.
"Atta boy, Harrison!" Paul interrupted happily, giving his younger mate an encouraging thump on the back.
"Glad you're feeling better, George." Mal said kindly. "Don't know what we'd do without you!"
"Alright everyone, there's a car waiting out front to take us to the concert hall." Brian announced, "And now that we know George is coming with us, we should get there as early as possible, so let's head out. Your instruments have been moved backstage, so you'll have to re-tune them when we arrive."
This time, all four Beatles followed their manager out the door, tailed by their head of security. Piling into the elevator for the second time that night, the three healthy Beatles jabbered animatedly amongst themselves, and with Brian and Mal. Everyone was too excited about the concert to notice George standing quietly in the corner, eyes closed, taking short, measured breaths in attempt to control his discomfort. Even the steady downward motion of the elevator was enough to make him feel nauseous again, and he was afraid that he would be sick all over his bandmates.
Mercifully, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Even from inside, the boys could hear the deafening screams of their fans.
"They aren't even goin' t' see us…" Paul commented under his breath.
"Right, now the car is out back," Brian began, as if he had read the bassist's mind, "so you boys won't be walking through that…" He finished with an understanding smile.
The group managed to get to the car without incident, but inside George found the motion making him feel ill once more. The lead guitarist looked sullenly out the window while everyone else chatted away merrily. He would not throw up, and he would not ruin the concert. This show was far too important to be cancelled just because poor little Georgie had a tummy ache.
Being the youngest in the group could get tough at times. George loved his mates, and there was nothing in the world better than touring with them' but sometimes it was incredibly frustrating how everyone doted on him, whether he wanted the attention or not. He knew that his friends would never intentionally put him down, but it seemed like his ideas were always the ones swept under the rug because John and Paul had been writing hits for much longer. George was determined to maintain a brave face; he couldn't stand the thought of everyone mothering him and treating him like the baby for the rest of the night if he let on about just how horrid he was feeling. So, he closed his eyes, tried to take deep breaths, and most importantly, kept his mouth shut.