Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles, Brian Epstein, Neil Aspinall, Mal Evans, or anyone else mentioned or featured in this story. This work of fiction is non-profit and exists only for creative stimulation and my own (and hopefully others') entertainment.
Full Synopsis:
The Fab Four are only days into their first North American tour when George starts feeling sick, so it comes as no surprise that he would try and conceal his poor health from the others. But when his illness grows worse and things start spiraling out of control, can his bandmates nurse him back to health without endangering the remainder of the tour? Or will the Beatles be forced to take a break from newfound fame in the name of their lead guitarist's wellbeing?
A/N:
This was inspired primarily by Naturelover422's stellar fic, Follow the Sun, which I highly recommend. I've also posted this particular story to my Wattpad account, so if it looks familiar that would be why.
I'm currently writing a novel and a full-length George fic, and so this is little more than a side project of mine and thus will likely not be updated frequently. However, seeing as this is just a one-shot I lost control over, there will be very few parts to post anyway.
Please rate and review! Feedback is what inspires me most!
Part One
George had not felt quite right for days.
It started innocently enough, with only a stubborn tickle in his somewhat-sore throat that he had to repeatedly swallow past and a case of the sniffles that could easily be overlooked as a byproduct of the chilly hotel- and dressing-rooms they'd been in and out of all this tour. The symptoms had steadily grown in multitude, however, and one morning he awoke with fierce nausea gripping his stomach and making his head swim.
In George's opinion, waking up in that American hotel room felt rather like how he imagined waking up in Antarctica would feel. Goosebumps had sprung up on the skin of his arms, and his teeth were chattering with the force of his shivers even despite the warmth provided by layers of covers he had wrapped tightly around his body. He had come to understand that America was hot in the summer, but this was a false trail if he'd ever seen one. America was absolutely freezing, even in the summer, and he wished desperately that he was back in Liverpool in front of a warm fire.
Months after the Ed Sullivan Show, and it still felt just as cold in New York City as it had when they'd first arrived that February to the sight of countless screaming fans. This, of course, was curious given that it had been winter then and George had been far sicker than he likely was now, but he was not thinking about that so much as he was thinking about how the bloody hell he was going to get warm.
He wasn't sure what time it was, but he could see that Ringo was no longer in the bed next to his, soundly asleep. In fact, the room was empty apart from him, but he could hear voices in the shared living space connecting the twin hotel rooms they'd split between the four of them. He could pick out each of his bandmates' voices, and he realized with a start that he was the only one left sleeping on the morning they were meant to depart for New Jersey.
Still quaking with cold, George begrudgingly threw aside the bed covers and slipped ungracefully onto his feet, which nearly rejected his weight on the first try. He did not fall, however, and was able to make it to the main room on shaky legs with no further incident.
"Look who's awake," announced John with a jesting smile. The rhythm guitarist was seated on the sofa with an acoustic guitar in his lap and Ringo stationed beside him. Paul was in a chair exactly opposite the two, and his brow creased with worry at the sight of George still in his pajamas this late in the morning. "Sleep well, did ye', Geo?"
"Yeah," George agreed, only half-truthful. He'd certainly slept late, but that was not exactly synonymous with well. He didn't voice this aloud, however. Instead, he asked, "How long 'til we're meant to leave?"
"'bout thirty minutes," reported Ringo. "We were just gettin' ready to wake ye', in fact."
George nodded, heaving a shaky sigh, and then left to get himself changed and presentable for their approaching departure. Luckily, Brian had left the suit George was meant to wear hanging in the shared bathroom, so his allotted dressing time could be spent trying to wrestle his outfit on without fainting rather than rushing about in search of the proper suit to wear.
It took exceedingly longer than usual for George to change—mainly because he had to stop fairly regularly in his endeavor just to breathe properly enough to keep himself conscious and his stomach contents where they belonged—so it was several long minutes before he actually got around to combing his disheveled hair and splashing enough warm water on his color-drained face to create the illusion of a healthy complexion. After an extended period of time, though, he emerged from the bathroom to find his mates talking with Mal Evans (who had supposedly just arrived) and eating breakfast at the kitchenette table. George's stomach rolled uneasily, but he tried to remain blasé in appearance.
"There you are, George," laughed Mal, hopping out of his seat to offer it to the lead guitarist. "Forget how to dress, did you?"
George was probably meant to laugh, but the thought didn't occur to him until it was far too late to do anything about it. His brain felt muddled, somewhat like somebody had filled his head with custard and hadn't the common courtesy to clean it out again.
"All right, Geo?" asked Ringo when George had taken the seat beside him. "Bit slow on the upkeep this mornin'."
"'m fine," George responded, though it was growing increasingly harder to keep a neutral expression on his face in the presence of such pungent food. His stomach lurched every time he managed to breathe through his stuffed nose, and he repeatedly had to swallow down bitter bile with all eyes following his every move.
"Slept in pretty late this mornin', 'e did," John stated jestingly, mouth full of toast and sausage. George almost gagged. "Bit groggy still, I s'pose."
"Yeah," agreed George, trying to breathe past the stubborn itch in his throat, "bit groggy."
Conversation resumed like usual without a moment's hesitation, and George nearly breathed a sigh of relief. He hated being the center of attention on his best day, so having all eyes on him when he wasn't feeling so well was like a nightmare in the flesh. He didn't even want to imagine how bad it'd become if his bandmates and road manager were aware of his worsening nausea or the budding headache he harbored behind his achy eye-sockets.
Time passed at a crawling pace while George stared somewhere beyond the room, and it came to a sudden, screeching halt when the conversation died down enough for Paul to notice George's empty plate and distant look. The former of these was a fairly regular occurrence, except that the plate would usually bear some sign of ever having held food, but the latter was almost as disconcerting as the evidence that George had yet to eat anything at all.
"Sure you're okay, Georgie?" inquired Paul, frowning ridges taking up temporary residence on his forehead. "Ye' 'aven't eaten anything."
This last bit of Paul's statement got everybody's attention, and suddenly George was stuck in the middle of things again. "George Harrison not eatin'?!" John exclaimed, faux-incredulous. "The bloody world must be reachin' an end!"
"Very funny," Mal said sarcastically, coming up behind George and startling him with a hand on his shoulder. "Why aren't you eating, George? You hardly ate yesterday either."
His first, most desperate instinct was to shout that he was feeling sick and allow them to coddle him like a child, but he squashed this silly impulse before he could act on it. "Sorry, lads," he laughed sheepishly, searching the table for the least-intimidating bit of food. "Got a bit caught-up in me thoughts, it seems."
Ignoring the obtrusive gazes of his companions, George grabbed the two smallest pieces of toast he could find and disregarded the compulsion to vomit when he bit into the first one. Paul's eyes narrowed suspiciously even as everyone else's returned to their own plates of food, and George offered him the most sincere smile he could manage with his mind focused primarily on swallowing past the roughness of his throat.
Eventually, the bassist let him be, and George was free to choke down the rest of his nausea-inspiring breakfast in relative peace. Only relative, however, because Mal's hand was still heavy and prominent on his shoulder and the presence of that nagging ache behind his eyes had grown more noticeable in the time he'd spent staring over Paul's shoulder and into the depths of space. It was dull, but George was still painfully aware of its origin deep within his skull and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to rub at his stinging eyes.
Eventually, George finished the last of his toast, and his stomach felt almost better for it, which made it very convenient that Brian Epstein waited until that moment to enter the room with the Beatles' head-of-security in tow to declare that it was time to leave.
"Ready to see the great New Jersey, boys?" he asked brightly, nodding for Mal to begin lugging the rest of the things out to the waiting limousine. Brian received three very enthusiastic responses, and didn't care enough to notice the lack of a fourth. "Great," he beamed. "Well, as soon as Mal gets back we'll set out!"
"I want a window seat in the limo," announced Ringo, raising a single hand in the air to ensure he wouldn't be overlooked.
"Do you want the other, Geo?" questioned Paul, more as a test than an actual question. There was a moment of hesitation during which Paul watched his younger mate very carefully, and at length he came to the conclusion that all was definitely not well with the lead guitarist.
"You can have it," George responded though it wasn't much of an answer at all. He hoped that Paul wouldn't notice this, but he also wasn't surprised when it became evident that the bassist had. Thankfully, Paul did not mention it aloud.
The rest of the wait was spent in a silence George didn't realize he craved until it fell upon the room and turned the aching in his head to a lower pain setting. He almost sighed aloud in pure relief, but didn't out of his continuing desire to remain under his mates' radar until such a time as it became necessary to emerge from the figurative shadows.
This respite was rather short lived, though, for Mal was quickly back and Eppy called loudly, "Ready, lads?" and shattered the comforting silence like a glass window. George's head unexpectedly cried out in renewed pain, and he would have whimpered had he not caught his composure just in time.
"Ready," agreed three eager Beatles, and this was enough for Eppy.
The two managers and four band members all rushed into the hallway and strode purposefully toward the elevators that would take them down to the ground floor. George's stomach, while mostly settled by now, lurched in anxiety at the thought of the day ahead and caused the youngest Beatle to trip and nearly smash the illusion he'd pasted up over his suffering. He didn't want to be the weak link, though, and this was enough to keep him acting even with Paul having witnessed his little blunder.
"Okay?" Paul queried, eyes equal parts suspicious and worried for the wellbeing of their youngest.
"Peachy," smiled George. "Just tripped over me feet."
"Quiet Beatle, perhaps, but certainly not the Graceful Beatle," John joked, making all but Paul and George laugh in merriment. George would normally have laughed at a joke (even one at his expense), but there was a gnawing pain in his eyes that made it somewhat difficult to focus on anything around him. This, paired with a stabbing headache that flared up at every sound or light fluctuation, was enough to distance him from his company. "What's wrong with ye', then, McCartney?"
"Hm?" asked Paul, raising a single eyebrow. "What do ye' mean?"
"Gone and spaced out on us, ye' have," provided Ringo. At this point they had arrived at and boarded the elevator, and were on their journey to the ground floor.
"Thinkin' is a crime now, is it?" the bassist asked rhetorically, cracking a smile for the sake of his companions. "Honestly, Lennon, I think ye'd rather benefit from thinkin' once in a while."
"Simmer down, McCartney," John threw back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm only lookin' after yer wellbein', y'know. Ye were thinkin' so hard I was a bit worried ye'd sprain something, to be perfectly honest."
"Oh, piss off," Paul chuckled, pausing when he spotted George leaning against the wall in the far right corner of the lift. The guitarist had paled dramatically since they'd begun their descent, and his eyes were now held firmly shut as if in an attempt to keep something out. "All right, Georgie? Ye've gone a bit pale there, mate."
"Fine," George called back with very little hesitation. "'m just bloody knackered is all."
"Knackered?" echoed John, half-joking and half-concerned. "Ye' slept later than any of us, Geo. Pretty damn sure ye' went to bed the earliest, too."
"Doesn't mean I can't be tired, John," George replied, not the slightest bit defensive. He'd grown so dizzy in the short time they'd been riding in the elevator that he was almost afraid to lift his heavy eyelids. He felt like even a movement as minor as that would rip consciousness brutally from his weakening grip.
At length, the lift came to a halt and the doors parted to an onslaught of noise that made George's head feel like it'd been skewered with an icepick. Shrieks of glee originated from outside the hotel's front doors and carried through the lobby like angry missiles assaulting the senses of all four Beatles, causing all to cringe in surprise and, for George, in pain.
"Christ," mumbled Lennon, hardly audible above the screaming. "They 'aven't even seen us yet."
George winced at the truth of this statement, and nearly crossed himself before he remembered the many sets of eyes watching him for signs of anything amiss.
"Well, come 'ead, lads," Brian commanded lightheartedly. "Let's go greet your fans."
Many sarcastic replies sprang to the tip of George's tongue, but his common sense prevented him from allowing any to slip past his lips in fear of sounding overly-pessimistic. Instead, he remained silent and trudged after Paul (who was the first in their chain of exiting Beatles) and tried to keep his tender eyes stuck on his mate's moptop rather than the excited girls and guys who'd come out just to catch a glimpse of the four of them. He couldn't really understand why anyone would care enough to simply watch them walk from one door to another, but he was trying not to be ungrateful.
From the moment George passed through the hotel's front doors and the crowd's sound levels increased by a tenfold, every step became increasingly difficult to take. Paul was smiling and waving like he always would and the others were undoubtedly greeting their fans in ways consistent with their media-dubbed personalities, but George couldn't bring himself to do anything apart from carefully placing one foot in front of the other. His head was suddenly screaming for reprieve, and the color in his vision dulled with every step his shaky legs took. He felt weak, like his legs were too small to hold the rest of him, and the toast he'd eaten felt heavy and uneasy in his stomach. In fact, he was suddenly very doubtful that he would make it to the waiting limo unaided and without incident, and he found himself once again in the throes of some childish desire; this time the desire for company.
Surrounded by people or not, George felt very alone all of a sudden, and he probably would've given just about anything in that moment for a friendly face to help him out of this hell. He wished that Pattie was there holding his hand, or that his sister would swoop in to his rescue. She did live in America, didn't she? Was this such a far-fetched desire? He'd even have taken their head-of-security as a substitute had he not been at the back of their exit line. He was feeling desperate.
As if sensing this, though, John soon served as George's hero just through the action of laying a comforting, leaden-weight hand on his younger friend's back. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep George steady and focused enough to trudge the remaining yard or so to the waiting limousine, whereupon he slid in beside Paul and let out an audible gasp of relief.
"Everything all right?" asked the bassist, eyebrows furrowed as his gaze swapped from George to John and back again.
"Absolutely," supplied Lennon, coming to George's rescue for the second time within a matter of minutes. "Did ye' see the bloody crowd, McCartney? Barmy place, America, I'm tellin' ye'…"
Paul did not seem convinced, but he dropped the subject when Ringo hopped in beside John, followed by Mal and Eppy.
"All right, boys!" Brian announced shortly after the limo started on its way. He was beaming. "Let's go over the schedule again, shall we? Now, when we arrive at the New Jersey venue, we'll head straight back to the dressing room. I'd estimate we'll have about a half an hour there before the press conference, which is being held in the venue today, so we won't have to go far. After the press conf—"
He did not have time to finish this thought before John said, "Well, would ye' look at that?" and all eyes turned to follow his gaze and landed upon the form of a newly-sleeping George Harrison, his head rested against the back of the seat. "Guess 'e was bloody knackered."
"Should we wake him?" questioned Paul of nobody in particular, the ridges in his forehead deepening with concern.
"No, let 'im sleep," Ringo chimed-in, a faint smile pulling at his features. "Looks right adorable, 'e does. Eppy can always fill 'im in on the plane, can't ye' Eppy?"
"Yes, of course," Brian agreed.
"'Adorable'?" chuckled John, echoing Ringo's statement. "Bloody queers, the lot o' ye'."
"Let 'im sleep," Ringo repeated, ignoring John's jibe at his sexual orientation.
"All right," agreed John, laughing when George's sleeping head tipped over so he was leaning heavily on Paul's shoulder. "Long as yer not worried about McCartney keepin' his hands to himself."
"Very funny, Lennon," Paul scowled, shaking his head gently and peering down at his sleeping mate. "Yer so adamant about lettin' 'im sleep, but he won't be able to fer long with ye' lot gabbing on, will 'e?"
"Ah, shut it, McCartney. Where's yer sense of humor this mornin'?" asked John, flicking some stray bangs away from George's eyes. "Georgie's sleepin' jus' fine. Don't ye' worry yer pretty little head."
"And we're the queer ones," jested Paul, finally cracking a smile though his worried gaze never left George. His sudden ability to sleep through anything was a little disconcerting, Paul thought, but at least he had some sort of color to his face in the form of a soft blush dusting his cheeks and nose. But then, this didn't seem quite right either…
"Leave 'im alone, Paul," someone snapped, and Paul retracted the hand he'd had reaching to check his mate for fever. John was fixing the bassist with a firm stare he'd likely learned from Aunt Mimi, and Paul held up his hand in surrender.
"Sorry," he announced sarcastically, "I'd forgotten that was illegal to care for a friend's wellbein'."
"If ye' care so much fer 'is wellbein'," said John, "then how 'bout lettin' the poor lad catch a kip while 'e still can?"
Paul sighed in defeat and slumped back in his seat as best he could with George snoring quietly against his shoulder, a rarity which he could not help but take silent note of. George was not typically a snorer. Sure, this cuddling thing was perfectly in line with his usual sleep behavior, but the snoring was not, and Paul's chest constricted in renewed worry.
The band spent the remainder of the drive chatting quietly amongst themselves and allowing George to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Eppy finished telling them the schedule at some point, but nobody had been listening particularly intently, more out of distraction than disrespect. It wasn't like that mattered much, however, given that the schedule was similar every day, so Brian didn't push the matter.
At long last the limousine came to a stop and Mal exited the vehicle to check that airport security was prepared to handle the overly-exuberant crowd of fans while Brian stayed behind with the band.
"Should we wake 'im now?" inquired Paul, gently nodding towards the still-sleeping form of their youngest member snoring softly into the fabric of Paul's suit jacket. The guitarist's chest heaved with every breath, almost as if the simple act was strenuous, and even John and Ringo had plastered on worried frowns by now.
"Might as well," sighed Ringo, blue eyes filled with compassion. "I doubt Mal will be gone fer long."
John nodded his agreement, and Paul softly gripped George's slender shoulder and shook as lightly as he could manage while still making some sort of impact. When the lead guitarist showed no sign of waking, though, Paul's frown deepened and his grip grew moderately firmer as he shook again, this time successful.
"Blimey," mumbled their youngest groggily, his brown eyes squinted as he searched the perimeter for answers to his next question; "Are we there already?"
"Yep," said Ringo brightly, smiling in contradiction with the worry in his eyes.
George nodded his understanding, but after a moment of distant staring his eyebrows furrowed in blatant confusion and he turned his sheepish gaze to each band member in turn. "Where are we?" he queried, swallowing with a great deal of badly-masked discomfort.
"Airport," reported John, laughing to ease the building tension. "Fer chrissakes, Harrison, you couldn't 'ave been that deeply asleep!"
The guitarist just shrugged by way of a response, and Paul studied the flush in his cheeks with piqued interest. He was fairly certain by this point that their youngest was running a pretty high fever, and was determined to prove it; but just as he was reaching to feel George's forehead for proof, Mal knocked on the window and Eppy said, "Ready, boys?"
Paul was tempted to tell him no, just to have a moment to evaluate George's condition before things got hectic, but he kept his lips firmly shut and followed the other three Beatles out of the limo and past the mob waiting for their arrival. George's pace grew slower in perfect accordance with their dwindling distance from the clear doors of the airport, and Paul sped up his own stride so that he could walk side-by-side with his younger friend, whose face had drained of color in the few seconds they'd been exposed to the screams of fans.
"Almost there, Georgie," said McCartney reassuringly, rubbing George's back for good measure. "Bit hot out 'ere, isn't it?"
It wasn't, though, thought George. In fact, the goosebumps from that morning were back with a vengeance, and he knew that the shivers were not far behind. He only hoped that they could get inside before he turned into a trembling mess again.
"Almost there," repeated Paul, hand steering George toward the glass door separating them from solitude. Almost there, the guitarist echoed mentally. Just a few more steps.
After what could've been hours, the band finally arrived and was able to hide safely inside the airport, away from the greater part of the noise ravaging George's eardrums and worsening the headache that still pounded away within his skull. The shivering had started again, and it was fierce enough that George almost worried he'd be shaken apart.
"All right, Geo?" Ringo inquired as they trailed after Eppy, who was en route to some chairs arranged in a sort of waiting room.
"'m fine," grumbled George, rubbing aggressively at his aching eyes and not caring in the least that his bandmates were staring. Let them stare, he thought. He was far too dizzy now to worry what anybody else thought of him. Remaining conscious long enough to board the plane was his primary concern at the moment, so it didn't matter to him that Paul still had a guiding hand on his back or that everyone turned to him first when Epstein offered them a place to sit and wait for him. He just didn't want to faint.
"Where's Eppy gone?" asked George when they were all seated, more out of desire for a distraction than desire for information. He was so, so cold…
There was a pause, and then Ringo spoke while the others stared on in worried disbelief. "He's just said where he's gone, love," said the drummer, eyes sympathetic. "Sure you're feelin' all right, Georgie? You look a bit off-color."
George silently debated whether or not to be honest about his steadily-deteriorating headache or the greying of his vision around the edges, and eventually let out a defeated sigh, violently massaging his forehead. "'m a bit dizzy, actually," he admitted, shutting his eyes to ward off the abusive rays of fluorescent light, "and 've got a bloody 'eadache."
Paul took this as his cue and immediately raised a hand to George's forehead, pushing overlong bangs out of the way for better access.
"Yer runnin' one helluva fever, love," he announced after a moment. "How long've ye' been feelin' ill?"
The lead guitarist opened his eyes just enough to see three worried Beatles gathered around him and let out a deep sigh that presently turned into a series of harsh, grating coughs that had everyone wincing in sympathy.
"All right, Georgie?" asked John after the coughs subsided and left George red-faced and gasping for air. "'ow long ye' been holdin' that in, eh?"
Paul elbowed John in the ribs, and the rhythm guitarist smiled apologetically.
"Been feelin' ill for a few days," reported George in answer to Paul's earlier question. "'m sorry, lads. Thought it was only a cold and didn't want t' cause any problems."
"'s all right, love," fussed Ringo, rubbing George's back adoringly. "We're just worried fer ye' is all. Do ye' feel up t' playin' tonight?"
"We'll understand if ye' don't, Geo," added Paul sympathetically. John nodded to signify that he, too, would not mind if George refused to play, but the lead guitarist would not even consider that an option.
"If I were bleedin' out me eyes I'd still play tonight, fellas," he proclaimed with a hoarse laugh. "Yer not gettin' rid o' me that easy."
John patted George on the shoulder encouragingly, and George smiled despite the pain still mounting in his head and eyes. Suddenly he was feeling queasy all over again, but he didn't want to tell his mates this when they were already worried for his health, nor did he want to admit that the dizziness had anything but abated during their recent exchange. Feeling content enough just to have some fraction of his discomfort known, though, George pulled his feet up onto the chair so that his legs were bent at the knees and closed his eyes in hopes of catching a bit of rest.
These hopes were reality within a matter of minutes when George dropped into an uneasy sleep, and Eppy chose that moment to return from chatting with the woman behind the front desk, his voice resonating and making the three conscious Beatles jump in surprise: "All right, fellas, plane is here. Ready to go?"
The three Beatles exchanged looks of matching concern, but it was finally John who spoke out on behalf of their youngest. "Little Georgie isn't feelin' well, Eppy," he explained, gesturing to the youngest Beatle who was already deeply asleep.
"What's wrong with him?" sighed Brian, clearly unhappy with the turn the day was taking. "Can he play tonight?"
"Said 'e's got a 'eadache, but he wants to play the show still," supplied Ringo, looking at George with a deeply-empathetic expression. "And 'e was feelin' dizzy before."
"And 'e's got a fever," added Paul, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Poor lad."
"How long has he been asleep?" Brian asked.
"Dropped off just as ye' arrived," John replied, fixing Eppy with an odd look. "Yer not goin' t' wake 'im, are ye'?"
"What else can I do?" Epstein sighed again, looking very stressed all of a sudden. "The plane is here, and we have to get to New Jersey!"
"Eppy's right," Paul stepped in. "'e can sleep on the plane."
The rhythm guitarist held up his arms in surrender and Ringo crouched in front of George's chair to shake the young musician awake. "Up and at 'em, Georgie, love," he crooned affectionately, shaking George by the arm. "'s time to go!"
"Hm?" hummed the guitarist, eyes fluttering open until the light hit them and inspired him to shut them again. "Where're we goin'?" He sat up further and allowed his feet to slip from their perch, but he didn't stand or fully open his eyes just yet.
"New Jersey, mate," Paul offered, drawing his eyebrows together in concern. "We're at the airport, remember?"
"Mm, airport," he repeated, nodding his remembrance. His eyes opened fully, then, albeit slowly and carefully, and he stretched the kinks out of his joints before standing up on unstable legs. He swayed, and four pairs of hands shot out to steady him before he held up a hand of his own to stop them. "'ve got it," he assured them, coughing softly.
"All right, then, lads?" Eppy asked, trying to keep an optimistic note in his voice despite the unfortunate decline of George's health. "Come 'ead."
The four lads obeyed, following Epstein with a distinct lack of gusto in the face of newly-grim circumstances. The flush of George's cheeks was an angry red now, standing out in stark contrast against his alabaster skin, and his eyes had grown rather glassy and disoriented to match his unsteady footing. The three healthy Beatles all but surrounded him throughout their quick trek from the waiting area to where the plane was boarding, just to try and ensure that he didn't trip or faint before they could do anything to help alleviate his suffering.
Some fraction of the way to the plane, the group came across Mal, who had not been seen since they entered the airport. "Ah, there you are!" exclaimed Eppy upon seeing the missing member of their little group.
"Had to call ahead to the hotel to make sure they'd be ready for us," explained Mal, taking a quick headcount. "All right, fellas?" he asked.
"Actually, George's ill," said John, standing directly beside the forenamed guitarist.
As expected, Mal heaved a great sigh at the news, but nodded his understanding and shot George a look of sympathy. "I was worried that would be the case," he admitted, "but I've probably got some cold and flu medicine in my carry-on. We can call for a doctor when we reach the hotel."
"Oh, there won't be any need for that," assured George, but his words were slurred and his eyes distant and over-bright. "Bloody plane better be air-conditioned, though. Who knew America could get so fuckin' hot?"
All eyes were on the guitarist now, and it had nothing to do with this being the most he'd spoken all day. They had been standing and talking for all of a minute and yet in that time he'd managed to go three shades paler and probably would not have been standing upright had Paul not had a supportive arm wrapped around him.
"Ye' were shiverin' like mad just a couple o' minutes ago," Paul pointed out, stumbling a bit when George's legs started to give out. "C'mon, love, stay with me."
The bassist could not support them both any longer, so he slowly lowered himself and George to the ground, whereupon he turned the young guitarist so that they were facing towards each other. "All right, Georgie?" he asked, pressing an eager hand to George's cheek. He had known that the guitarist's fever was on the rise, but he had not expected for it to get so high so fast. It was utterly disconcerting, to say the least.
"Gerroff me, McCartney," George suddenly shouted, pushing Paul away with weak arms and scrambling to his feet despite how the action drained all the remaining color from his face. Then, this episode ended as abruptly as it had started when George's fever-bright eyes rolled back into his head and his skinny legs gave out beneath him, sending him crumbling. He would even have hit the floor had Mal and John not been near enough to catch him.
"Jesus Christ," swore Paul, hopping to his feet and assisting Mal and John with laying George's dead-weight body on the floor. His skin was practically burning to the touch, and he showed no recognition for what felt like hours, even with Paul and Ringo seated on either side of him and gently tapping his face in turns.
"C'mon, Geo," called Ringo, trying to sound cheerful despite the anxious quiver in his voice. "Wake up, love. We've got a plane to catch."
"Up and at 'em, Geo," called Paul, now jostling the guitarist by the shoulder. "C'mon, Georgie, love, yer scarin' us 'ere."
"We should take him to the hospital," suggested Mal, turning to Eppy with worried eyes. "I can call for an ambulance and cancel the press conference and concert. This isn't right, Brian." Mal was practically pleading, and Epstein sighed heavily.
"No, we'll get him to New Jersey and call for a doctor," Eppy said. It was a very final-sounding command, and so nobody argued.
Finally, after what could have easily been hours, George's eyes flickered open and a soft groan of pain escaped from between his lips, inspiring everyone to breathe a sigh of relief. Then, immediately after they opened, his eyes shut again—this time in discomfort—and he lifted a leaden-feeling arm to shield his gaze from the offensive rays of light attacking his retinas.
"Feelin' all right, Geo?" queried Ringo, eyes still wide with panic. This incident had given them all quite the scare. "Ye' bloody fainted!"
"Did I?" slurred George, voice gruff. "Don't remember that."
"Bloody hell, Harrison," breathed Paul. "Ye' frightened us half t' death!" Relieved or not, everybody was still in a state of mild terror as a result of this incident, so it was no surprise that Paul sounded somewhat hysterical.
"Can you walk?" asked Brian, fixing the lead guitarist with a serious stare.
George scoffed and started to roll his eyes before a rush of pain took over and he had to shut them in order to see straight again. "Course I can bloody walk," he argued, begrudgingly accepting John's assistance in standing.
"Then let's take this discussion to the plane," Epstein instructed. "We're late enough as is."
The boys followed Brain through the airport, all huddled rather close in case of an incident like the previous one, and kept an anxious eye on George at all times. Truthfully, he was growing rather tired of the attention, but he decided to humor his bandmates for the time being and allow himself to be coddled.
The clacking of boots on linoleum sent shivers up George's spine that had nothing to do with his raging fever and he desperately tried to ignore the thudding of his own footsteps echoing in his skull and causing tears to spring unwarranted to his aching eyes. Paul had a protective hand on the guitarist's arm now, and it truly felt like the only thing pinning him down to reality when his headache threatened to rip consciousness from him all over again. It was comforting really, or would have been had George not felt so utterly ill and miserable.
Sometime later the small group had finally reached their place of destine and boarded the plane hurriedly on account of their worsening tardiness. Mal seated Paul and John together, and instructed Ringo to sit with and keep a close eye on their youngest in his ailing state. He then left George with the promise of meds once they were in the air, and departed to find his own seat by Brian.
It was during takeoff, however, that things got really rough. George's head, which had been steadily pounding by the time he was buckled into his seat, was practically imploding only part of the way into their ascent. In addition to the mounting pressure in his head, the lead guitarist's ears had also taken on a very distinct, stabbing sort of pain that made him fear he would go deaf.
At some point, it became stiflingly hot and George felt that he could not breathe. His head and ears insinuated that his skull was caving in and it was bloody fucking hot, but there was not a thing that he could do about it.
"George?" fretted Ringo when he noticed the excessive pallor beneath his mate's raging fever-flush. George's eyes had gone wide and they shone with illness and unshed tears, and it appeared that breathing was becoming increasingly difficult for him. "Are you all right, love?"
"Me 'ead," he said in lieu of a response, tears suddenly trailing down his wan face. "Oh, fuckin' 'ell, me bloody 'ead is cavin' in, Rings!"
"No, Geo, it isn't. Yer head looks fine t' me," Ringo said, trying to console the hysterical guitarist. The youngest Beatle looked downright delirious, and he was now cradling his head and sniveling loudly. "'s all right, Georgie."
"No, it's fuckin' not all right," he argued, lip trembling and hands aggressively rubbing at his temples. Ringo could tell that he was in great pain, and it killed him that there was nothing he could do to help. George was practically sobbing now, sniffling and coughing through his tears with his fingers clawing at his ears and head in anguish.
"Shh, Georgie," Ringo crooned soothingly, hands gripping George's skinny wrists and holding them firmly to stop him from scraping at his skin any longer. "Yer goin' t' be just fine, love. Why don't ye' just sleep fer a bit and we can get ye' somethin' to help yer head once we're in the air?"
"It's goin' to bloody implode, Rings!" he argued, voice hushed and croaky. "Fuckin' hurts…"
"'m not goin' t' let it implode, love. Just sleep and we can have ye' right as rain in a little bit." The drummer was growing steadily more doubtful that they could help the lad any this far up in the air, but he was not going to tell him this when he was delirious and frenzied.
George seemed to search Ringo's worried eyes for any sign of untruth, and visibly deflated with a trembling sigh when he allowed himself to find solace in his older mate's words. A few more tears slipped down his face and he sniffled wetly, but eventually his eyelids slid protectively over his feverish eyes and his breathing evened out to signify sleep.
Ringo let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and did nothing to prevent George from unconsciously wrapping himself around the drummer's arm, his head leaned against the older man's shoulder.
When they were finally in the air not too terribly long after this episode, Mal did as promised and rose from his seat to give Harrison any medicine he had that might bring him relief. When he stopped at Ringo's and George's row, however, he found the guitarist snoring softly with his face tear-streaked and his cheeks burning a deeper shade of red than Mal had ever thought possible. Ringo looked up at Mal upon his arrival, and shushed him with a single finger held to his lips.
"We can't wake 'im," said Ringo defiantly, absently brushing some hair out of his mate's eyes.
"We have to," Mal told him. "He needs to take something before we land in New Jersey. We don't want another incident like the one in the airport."
"Well, believe it or not, we've just 'ad another incident," the drummer contended, feeling fiercely protective of his younger friend. "Poor lad's bloody delirious, Mal!"
Mal breathed out a sigh of either exhaustion or frustration, but Ringo didn't back down. The road manager hadn't just seen what Ringo had; nor had Brian or Paul or John, for that matter, and the drummer was not about to wake George when he'd been in so much pain only a few minutes before. He could take medicine at the hotel, thought Ringo; there was no real reason whatsoever to wake him while they were still in the air.
"Fine," surrendered Evans, packing away the medicine again. "We'll let him sleep, but that just means he's going to have to wait until we're at the hotel to get any relief."
"Trust me," said Ringo, flinching at the recent memory of George crying desperately, "it's best we leave him to his kip."
Mal departed after this cryptic statement and returned to his seat, leaving Ringo with a snoozing George and his own gloomy thoughts.
There was no way George's temperature had risen to such worrisome levels so quickly, which left him with no choice but to conclude that George had been running a fever for far longer than he let on. The guitarist had said he'd been feeling unwell for a few days. Was it possible he'd been so ill for so long and nobody had taken notice? Ringo would like to think not, but then how closely had they really been watching him?
Ringo would likely not even have noticed that their youngest wasn't eating had Paul not pointed it out to them, and this was certainly a sign that something was amiss. The drummer silently vowed then and there with George wheezing quietly against his shoulder, arms wrapped around one of Ringo's, that he would pay far closer attention to their ailing guitarist from then on.
Which, of course, brought him to wonder why it was George was wheezing. Snoring seemed only fitting with the young guitarist as congested as he'd been following his crying spell, but it sounded rather as if the lad was having a great deal of difficulty breathing, and the implications of this were not ones that Ringo would like to consider.
The eldest Beatle almost wanted to wake his ill friend to check that he was all right (or as near as one could get with a high fever and unbearable headache), but thought better of it just as his hand was hovering over the thin shoulder of the ailing boy. He himself had refused to wake the lad only a few brief moments before, and so it would be almost cruel to go through with it as soon as he noticed one thing strange in the slumbering guitarist's appearance.
Concerned, but deciding ultimately that he could wake George when they landed, Ringo settled down for a kip of his own.
End of Part One
A/N:
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